


Dead Man's Bride

by BirdWhistle



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24850642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdWhistle/pseuds/BirdWhistle
Summary: "Your parents offered you as payment for their debt, and I accepted." He has a strong German accent, and his voice is not unpleasant. And what he refers to is a mere technicality; she feels bought.AU in which women can be used as currency and one lonely vampire takes advantage of this system to get himself a wife. Too bad she despises him.
Relationships: Viago/Original Female Character
Comments: 59
Kudos: 49





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Back on my bullshit :)
> 
> My world-building skills are, well, POOR. So the specifics of this universe are, well, NONEXISTENT. I just took the premise (arranged marriage) and ran with it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Her attention is focused on the man outside. Young, roguish features partially hidden by his hat. He seems kind, perhaps willing to indulge a capricious impulse, like running away. Would he also put a dagger through her heart if she asked? No. She would not burden him with such a request. That one she’d take care of herself, should the moment come.

“She’ll be difficult at first. She’s always been difficult. I never struck her, and I sometimes regret it”, her father chuckles. Clara sighs. Her father would sooner cut his own hand off than strike her. She looks at her parents and feels an almost uncontrollable desire to cry. She never would have thought them spineless. Poverty has made them weak. Weak and dastardly. Selling their only child to a… to a… to that _thing_ that eyes her from the hearth.

He has remained standing the entire meeting, and, out of pure and needless defiance, so has Clara. She hates that he’s handsome. She hates his (seemingly) mild-mannered nature. Men like that —rich, powerful, aristocratic— tend to be arrogant and pompous. But this one is reserved and deferential. This one, she reminds herself, is no man.

“My Clara is not only gracious, but intelligent. She’s interested in the sciences. I am sure there are plenty of books here that will catch her eye. She’ll devour them in weeks”, her mother says. Clara scoffs and looks at her mother. Far too late, Mrs. Dumas realizes she’s given her daughter a perfect chance to spit her rage.

“Indeed. It’s a shame these books are the sole interest I find around here. And I can only assume they’re not the ones that’ll be devoured, considering the creatures that dwell in this fine house”.

Mr. Dumas closes his eyes and lowers his head. His wife throws their child a murderous glance. Clara smirks. If she’s lucky, her soon to be husband will suck her dry on their wedding night and she won’t have to put up with this bullshit anymore.

  


Viago was watching Clara out of the corner of his eye, but now that she’s spoken, he can look at her directly. Her open disdain and the venom of her words do nothing to deter his attraction. Quite the opposite; they make her far more appealing. Not that she wasn’t before: beautiful, yes, but her beauty is not as eye-catching as, say, the ladies of the court. And she has quite the temper. And she smells fucking _delicious_.

He’s painfully aware of the fact that she won’t let him touch her soon. Or ever, given her disgust toward his kind. But he’s also willing to acknowledge that she is the one who has been put in an extremely difficult position and has not been given the option to say no. She has barely looked away from the window since they’ve been here; she would bolt if she had the opportunity. Maybe she will after they wed. But now, all he wishes to do is look at her. Her cheeks are flush with contempt; her posture is rigid and unyielding. She’s looking at her mother, but she must sense his stare because she turns to him.

If he were alive, her gaze would kill him stone dead. There’s so much vitriol in her eyes Viago visibly winces. Is this even a good idea? He could easily waive their debt; what the Dumas owe him is a speck of dust compared to what he owns. But his pride gets in the way of his more merciful impulses. And he has a reputation to uphold. Mr. and Mrs. Dumas have lost everything of value, all they have left is their own battered pride. That and a daughter that’s worth one hundred times more what they owe him, but they’re too blind to see that, and it won’t be him who points it out.

  


It’s hard to control. She tries, but the pain she feels is too great, too piercing. Her own parents have sold her as if she were livestock. She is certain her blood is black and putrid, for her hatred for them has poisoned her. She knows she should be courteous, at least. She should show at least an ounce of respect to the man that will own her. She’s going to live in _his_ home, sleep in _his_ bed, eat _his_ food. It’s in her best interest to be civil, to be diplomatic. Especially since he’s a blood-sucking monster. Stronger than mortal men, and faster. And crueler. He will rape her and torture her and feed on her.

As she turns to look at him, she expects to see him licking his lips in anticipation, the white of his sharp fangs glistening in the gloom. But all she sees is… a dark-haired man nervously twisting his gloves in his hands, an apologetic look in his eye. Those eyes of him are a rich, chestnut brown, and they’re big and more expressive than she would have believed. Clara’s anger slowly dissolves, making room for intrigue. She moves toward him, her chin high.

“Why did you buy me?”, she demands.

“I didn’t buy you, Ms. Dumas. Your parents offered you as payment for their debt, and I accepted.” He has a strong German accent, and his voice is not unpleasant. And what he refers to is a mere technicality; she feels bought.

“I… I do happen to have a lot of books about the sciences: physics, chemistry, biology… even the human-centered ones, like medicine and psychology. Do you have a favorite?”, he asks. He has stopped fidgeting, and his voice is lower. He leans forward, not enough to invade her personal space, but enough to be heard by her and her alone.

“I will only devour you when you explicitly request it, Ms. Dumas. And I’ll make it worth your while”. Clara’s breath hitches and a shiver runs down her spine. She knows she is supposed to feel frightened, and she does. But she also feels… entranced. What is happening?!


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sorrowful evening for literally everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Sexual violence is explicitly alluded to by the characters.

“I now pronounce you man and wife”.

Viago had asked the minister to omit the kissing part. The only witnesses were Clara’s parents and Agnes, his housekeeper. Agnes was far too excited; she even shed a tear or two. Viago knew they were genuine, the woman was a hopeless romantic. She would soon learn Clara detested him, and things would get awkward.

And Clara… she is wearing a simple gown, dark blue. Her hair is a long braid that falls down her back, loose strands framing her face. He wants to bury his fingers in it, he wants to undo that braid and rid her of that dress and take her right there on the floor of his study. He imagines her legs wrapped around his waist, her breath hot on his face, the soft wetness of her tongue in his mouth, and he lets out a pained sigh.

Her face is as stern as an old hag’s. She hasn’t even looked in his direction. She is proud and stiff where she stands. When the minister declared them officially wed, she grimaced, as if she had been physically struck. The blow her father had never given her came at last.

He sees her shake the minister’s hand, and then she turns to his housekeeper.

“Agnes, could you please show me to my room?” Agnes glances at him, and he nods.

“Yes, ma’am, of course.”

Clara heads toward the door without as much as a farewell to her parents. They watch her leave, her mother frowning and her father sighing in defeat. Viago is certain there has always been friction between the Dumas women, but it was Mr. Dumas who offered him his daughter. Does Clara know that? Does Clara know her mother opposed this vulgar transaction?

The door opens and Tessie, the maid, walks in carrying a tray with three steaming cups of tea. Viago sits with the others and tries to make small talk. Everyone in the room is tense and uncomfortable, yet affable and polite. A room full of pathetic pretenders, every single one of them.

  


“What is he like, Agnes?”, Clara asks. Agnes is organizing all sorts of clinking bottles and brushes on the boudoir. Clara pays them no mind; she intends to let them gather dust right where they sit. She will not attempt to make herself desirable in any way. If she doesn’t muster the courage to run away, she’ll just let herself wither in this room.

Actually, no, forget that. Viago must have weapons somewhere, he must enjoy hunting, no? She’ll get her hands on a rifle and shoot herself in the heart. Fuck, he doesn’t hunt, vampires can’t walk in daylight.

Poison! Yes, she’ll drink poison. It’ll rot her blood and he won’t be able to eat her, to consume her like one does an animal.

“He’s very kind, ma’am. He treats us with respect, and he encourages Tessie to learn other skills so she won’t be a maid forever. He doesn’t take familiars, which is rare for them, especially for one of his social standing.”

Clara has heard that term before, but she’s not quite sure what it entails. But she doesn’t ask. Of course Agnes will paint him in the best light, he’s her employer. And yet, she doesn’t doubt her words. Viago has a reputation of being non-threatening. He is feared, because all vampires are feared. But people also seem to like him. He is amiable and even neighborly. She supposes he gets bored in this big house all by himself, so being welcome in other people’s homes is a must.

As far as she knows —and she would have known, everyone would have— he has never fed on anyone in their town. That does raise the question of where and how he gets his… food? victims? Does he kill them, or does he only partially drain them? If that’s the case, how long does it take them to recover? Does he pay them or do they offer themselves to him? She would love to know, but that would require interaction, that would require _civil_ conversation. So she’ll never know. She’s so tired. And the worst is yet to come.

  


Her door is open. He slowly approaches the threshold, and once there, he’s almost afraid to cross it. Clara is sitting at the boudoir, and her hair is loose. It’s dark, but not like his own. Hers is a deep mahogany brown with vibrant, bronze hues. She has a brush in her hand, but her hair looks unbrushed. She seems to have undone the braid and no more.

She changed into a nightgown, or so he presumes; she is wearing a robe. He closes the door behind him, but doesn’t venture farther into the room. Clara stands and moves toward him, and he notices her bare feet. She looks beautiful. She looks ripe. He can’t help but picture himself on his knees, kissing the skin of her ankle as he enters her again and again, her soft moans filling his ears.

He closes his eyes for a second, hoping the darkness will dissolve those thoughts.

“Why did you marry me, Viago?”, she asks. Her voice is so, so cold. And that’s such an unexpected question.

“I don’t understand”, he replies.

“My parents were in no position to bargain. They still would have given me to you, marriage or no marriage. You bound yourself to me, why? Why did you make it legal? Why?”

She’s holding back tears, and Viago’s heart sinks a little. He now understands this line of questioning. If he had chosen to take her as his mistress, she could have escaped more easily, and no one could have forced her to come back. She has no other family, and no money of her own, so he fails to see how that would have yielded any positive outcomes.

But she would have fled, that’s for sure. If he’s honest, he didn’t really give it much thought. He didn’t marry her because he wanted to bind her to him by legal means; he married her because that was the proposal put forth by her parents. He didn’t think about negotiating the terms, he just accepted them.

“Please believe me when I tell you my intentions were not to… shackle you to me. Your parents offered me your hand in marriage, and I just said yes. I considered it fair. And, if you’ll allow me to be completely transparent, I think this is better for you.”

He’s awfully glad looks can’t kill, because Clara’s would have disintegrated him on the spot. He clears his throat.

“Being a mistress would have allowed you to leave, yes. But it’s also frowned upon, shameful. For you, Clara, not for me. I am a man… even if you don’t see me as one. And you can’t deny I’m afforded privileges denied to you. I could have a dozen mistresses, and people would still respect me. Can you say the same?”

Clara’s back is to him, and her shoulders tremble lightly. A sob. Viago looks down. Her sadness is palpable, he can even fucking taste it.

“You are my wife. Everything I own is yours. And you are free to come and go as you please, there are no chains at the door. As long as you always return”, he says.

Clara turns. Her gaze is dark and empty. She unties her robe and lets it slide off her shoulders. Fuck, she’s so beautiful, so alluring. She’s wearing a silk white nightgown that clings to her curves. His mouth is suddenly dry. He can smell her, he can feel her blood pumping in her veins. But the coldness of her eyes makes _him_ shiver.

“I know what you want, what you expect from me tonight and every night. But listen to me, Viago. You’ll have to take it by force, because I will not give it willingly. I will resist, and I know I’ll lose, but I’ll resist nonetheless. You’ll have to break me to have me”.

A stake to the heart would have hurt a lot less. He leans against the door and closes his eyes. His hands are shaking, so he puts them behind his back. He needs to be, or at least _appear_ to be calm for what’s coming.

He detaches himself from the door and moves toward Clara. She’s shaking. He stands as close as he can without violating her personal space.

“I am not an animal, Clara. Do you hear me? I am not a brute, I am not a beast. I will not… push you onto this bed, rip your clothes and rape you. Not tonight, not ever. If we ever consummate this marriage, I assure you, you will want it. You will beg me for it, Clara.”

He’s also shaking, and he’s stepped closer and closer, their faces only inches apart.

“You are my wife. And if you give yourself to me, you will do so freely and willingly.”

He steps back, trying to collect himself. Clara is breathing quickly, and her stare is still dark but no longer venomous. He retreats until he’s at the door.

“As you know, I can’t come in contact with daylight. And tomorrow evening I’ll be leaving for a short trip, so I won’t see you in a few nights. Well, _you_ won’t see _me_ for a few nights, which I’m sure will give you some respite. Agnes and Tessie will help you with whatever you need. This is your home now, feel free to explore it to your convenience. If you wish to go out, Christopher will drive you. Good night”.

He exits the room as quickly as possible without actually running. He feels a small drop of blood blooming in the corner of his eye.

What a horrible mistake they have made.


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one's died of unhappiness just yet.

Agnes finds Clara roaming about the study, nibbling on a piece of toast. She’s taken out several books and laid them carelessly on the desk and on the settee.

“Don’t worry, Agnes, I’ll put them back when I’m done.”

Agnes smiles. Clara is not what she expected. This morning, Tessie said Clara had already bathed and clothed when she came to her room to help her get ready.

Tessie had stood nervously at the door, not knowing what to do. Clara asked her to do something with her hair, a smile on her face. They spent nearly an hour debating on which hairdo would be better, and in the end, Clara was sporting the same simple braid she had the day before. Clara had told her that she enjoyed it when someone combed and brushed her hair, and trying different hairstyles was fun, but she almost always preferred a braid. Tessie told her she could do dozens of different braids, and Clara’s eyes lit up. They were tired and swollen, as if she had not slept well.

Agnes could see Tessie was curious about the wedding night, but they didn’t dare discuss it. Agnes had seen Viago leave Clara’s bedroom in a haste, a sorrowful expression on his face. It was obvious the marriage had not been consummated.

Clara drops a book and Agnes is brought to the present. “Is there anything you need, ma’am?”, she questions.

“Yes. Please call me Clara. Ma’am makes me feel like my mother”, Clara says, a note of resentment in her voice. Agnes sighs. “Of course”.

Clara approaches her; her chest is covered in crumbs, and she’s got jelly all over her fingers. A disheartened child, that’s what she looks like, and Agnes feels sad.

“Where is Viago? He said he was going on a short trip, but he didn’t say where or how long he would be gone. Do you know? Are you allowed to tell me?” Clara is standing right in front of her. Agnes is quite tall, almost as tall as Viago. Clara looks so small and… fragile.

She wonders what they said to each other last night. Viago had said Clara was a beautiful young woman, proper and smart. Proper she is not. But she’s polite and respectful (to everyone except Viago). And too smart for her own good.

“He has a friend in the next town. Vladislav, I believe is his name. A vampire, of course. They used to live together. He said he would come back in three or four days”.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me”, she informs Clara, who is following her out of the study.

“Are you going to bake something? I could help you. I like baking”, Clara says, a bashful smile on her face. Agnes returns the smile. “Don’t we all”, she says. 

  


It’s almost dusk when Clara goes back to her bedroom. Her first day in her new home wasn’t so bad. When she woke up this morning, she thought about drowning herself in the luscious bath. But then poor Tessie would find her. She wondered if Viago had a sense of smell for anything that wasn’t blood: Agnes had arranged a wide variety of perfumes for her to wear.

Viago had called for a seamstress and had had _a lot_ of dresses made for her before their wedding. She tried a few of them on and was surprised to see they fit her perfectly. He had a keener eye than she would have expected.

She tried to imagine him ridding her of such finery, unwrapping her like a gift. She felt her brow furrow: the thought wasn’t displeasing.

 _If we ever consummate this marriage_ , he had said. The night before had been an emotional whirlwind, and not only for her, apparently. He had spoken with such vehemency, and he sounded so hurt. She could see him shaking, his brown eyes dark and miserable. Is that how this union would be? Two people and an unfathomable abyss between them?

It had been her parents who had offered her like a loaf of bread to a stranger, but _he_ had said yes. He could have asked her. Her feelings were never a part of the equation, never considered by the parties involved. She wanted to run and never look back. But where would she go? With what means? She could steal Viago’s valuables and bolt. She could join a tribe of natives and disappear in the bush.

She could try to get in touch with Ian.

Ian. She hadn’t thought about him since the… encounter. He probably despises her. Clara realizes she has no allies, no friends. Charlotte, her only friend, is a married woman with two young children. _At least her husband is human_ , she thinks bitterly.

And Viago? He would return in a matter of days, and then they would both sulk around the house. Maybe his friend, this Vladislav, would change his mind about his marital rights. No, that would not happen.

Viago had been quite offended when she suggested he would have to take her by force. But she had seen the way he looked at her. Hungry. _I will only devour you when you explicitly request it_. What had he meant? Did he think she would ask him to drink her blood? Or was he referring to more carnal desires? Or both?

“Don’t you want to change, ma’am? It can’t be comfortable to sleep in that dress.” Tessie’s voice seems to come from a great distance. Clara realizes she’s face down on her bed, still wearing the dress she put on that morning. God, she’s starving.

An image of Viago eagerly feeding on a young, beautiful woman in a dark mansion crosses her mind. The woman is writhing beneath him, and they are both naked. Clara frowns. Will he respect his vows? But why should he when his wife won’t give herself to him? Does he have the freedom to pursue other women? Is he not expected to be faithful?

“Is it possible to have my dinner here, Tessie? I want to move as little as possible. Maybe stay here forever”, she mumbles.

Tessie giggles. Clara likes that sound. She finds it soothing.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring it now, yes?” Clara nods.

She gets up as soon as Tessie closes the door. There’s something she wants to do before she eats. It could ruin her appetite, but she’s far too curious. Viago’s bedroom is down the hallway. There are several doors between it and her own. The door is closed, but unlocked. Clara takes a deep breath and opens it.

It’s ridiculously dark in there. There must be a lamp, no? Or can vampires see in the dark? How does he get dressed, for heaven’s sake? Just like the picture of Viago and the woman, a picture of Viago dressing himself flashes in her mind. Clara has seen him only twice: the night they met and the night they wed. Both times he wore dark clothes with tall riding boots.

She pictures him buttoning his shirt, but then there’s a hand, small and nimble, unbuttoning them. She shakes her head.

Her hand finally lands on a switch, and the room is flooded with a soft, amber light. The room has no windows. There’s a narrow cot against one wall, and, on the opposite wall, a black coffin. There’s a small table with toiletries (what for?) And nothing else. There are so few things in the room, but nothing seems out of place. Just like the study: everything is meticulously organized. Even the toiletries, which amount to hand soap, a glass with toothpaste and a toothbrush and a comb.

Clara chuckles at the idea of Viago brushing his fangs. He had stood really close to her the night before, and she had realized Viago doesn’t smell like anything. What did she expect him to smell like? Death, probably. She expected a foul stench, but no, nothing like that. There was a faint scent of fabric softener, and yes, an equally faint scent of mint, and both were… reassuring, somehow.

She hears Tessie’s steps on the stairs and takes one last look at the coffin before leaving.

  


Vladislav thought the whole affair to be quite amusing. Viago, with a human wife! Hysterical, apparently. But he was also a pragmatic man, and he suggested Viago bring Clara over so they could have an orgy and smooth things out. Too pragmatic, in Viago’s opinion.

All jests aside, Vladislav’s advice was surprisingly sensible: give Clara time. Viago had told him that his wife —his very first, since he never married when he was alive— was strong-willed, and that made her even more attractive. Vladislav smirked.

“Is she a virgin?”, he asked. Viago could have blushed. “No.”

Mr. and Mrs. Dumas had told him —completely unprompted— that Clara had had a short-lived fling with a neighbor, a young man named Ian. Incredibly short-lived: she had fucked him out of spite, thinking Viago would no longer want a ruined wife.

Viago found the anecdote almost comical. It revealed a lot about Clara’s character, and it showed the lengths she was willing to go to aggravate him.

He knew his wife was still home, for he hadn’t received news of her escape. Maybe she had fucked Christopher, the driver, in his absence. He was her age and handsome, and, more importantly, alive.

Viago couldn’t care less about Clara’s virtue, but he did wonder if that Ian fellow had… if he had…

Had Clara enjoyed herself? Had she liked being touched by a man? Had Ian buried his face between her legs and made her come with his mouth? Had she screamed in pleasure while he took her? He was torturing himself with those questions, but they were like a deluge, heavy drops pouring down on him.

He longed for her touch. He wanted to kiss her, to bruise her mouth with his own, to fuck her hard until she moaned his name. And he wanted to hold her, to lay his head on her chest and feel the steady beat of her heart. To allow himself a moment of rest beside her warm body. Viago wanted to hear her say his name with affection.

Vladislav said she just needed time to adjust, and he told him to go home. He wants her to adjust to his presence, not his absence.

  


Viago can see the lights of his study from outside. It’s quite late; maybe Agnes forgot to turn them off on her way out.

He is surprised to find Clara sprawled on the settee, an open book on her lap and another on her chest. There’s a disarray of books all around her: she looks like the world’s laziest librarian. The sight makes him smile.

He moves with caution; she is sound asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her. Most of the books are about physics, but there’s one on the table that catches his gaze. _Story of the Eye_. It’s closed, so it’s impossible to know if she started reading it and then set it aside, or if she was planning to read it later.

He couldn’t resist, on his way home, hypnotizing Christopher to ask him if Clara had seduced him. The poor lad answered he didn’t even know the sound of her voice: she hadn’t left the house. _Did you go inside, Christopher? Did you make love to her on her bed?_ Christopher shook his head.

"She’s your wife, sir. I don’t want to cross you, I don’t want you to suck me dry, sir. My mother and my little brother count on me, sir."

Viago felt bad afterward. He does not intend to monitor his wife’s actions. Actions that, until now, are reduced to spending all of her time indoors and making a mess of his study.

He takes the books and puts them on the table. Is she a light or a heavy sleeper? Only one way to know.

He slips his arms beneath her body and lifts her up. She is so, so warm, and she smells like flowers and fruit. Agnes had purchased a dozen of perfumes, and Viago already knows he will like them all. He moves slowly, careful not to rouse her. Her bedroom is unbelievably far and also painfully close.

He doesn’t know how she’ll react if she wakes and finds herself in his arms; but he does not want to let go of her. Just as he enters her bedroom, Clara snuggles her face against his chest, a long sigh escaping her.

Viago would give every single one of his possessions just to wake her and kiss her and feel her kiss him back. He lays her down on the bed, and he seeks the warmth of her neck.

It would be so easy to give in. His fangs press slightly against her skin, and he feels like drowning in her scent. He withdraws, shaking. He’s painfully hard, too. _Fuck_.

As he walks out of her bedroom, he is convinced he’s living in a hell of his own making.


	4. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attempts are made. And mistakes, too.

_She’s in the study, but she can only recognize the vague outlines of the furniture. And then it’s dark. But she is not afraid; it’s the opposite: she feels safe. The world appears to move, yet she is in one place. She feels weightless; her bones have no density, her muscles lack tissue. There’s a familiar scent in the air, but she can’t quite pinpoint it. She still tries to find it, seeking it and finding it and inhaling it and breathing out. The source is cool, like an ocean breeze. Where is she? Is this a dream? Did Viago kill her and throw her body in the sea? Is the surface beneath her the bottom of the Pacific? It’s comfortable and enjoyable, so she doesn’t try to object, to fight. Something grazes her neck. There are no flying creatures in the sea, but it feels like a big moth fluttering its wings against her skin. And its legs are sharp, sharp enough to pierce, should it decide to. But she doesn’t object. She wants to give in, to cave to whatever it is that’s claiming her. But then it’s gone, and she’s alone in an all too familiar darkness. All alone._

  


Clara sees herself frowning in the mirror. She’s always frowning, damn it.

Viago is back, and he found her asleep in the study, and he took her, in his arms, to her bedroom. She has always been a heavy sleeper; her mother used to say the house could burn to ashes in the night and Clara would sleep right through it.

She was roused from her deep sleep by an abrupt ending to a strange dream and, not entirely awake, reached between her thighs to find herself wet. She touched herself with languid strokes of her fingers, and she could see the shadows moving, as if someone were in the room. But it was just her, so close to orgasm that she let out a lustful moan and sped up the motion of her fingers.

Her mind’s eye conjured a tall man wearing dark clothes and black boots. But then, in the blink of an eye, he was naked and next to her, touching her right where she wanted to be touched, and he lowered his head and then he was licking her, his tongue slow and soft.

 _Viago_ , she murmured. The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming; her pleasure peaks and she is moaning into the pillow, her body convulsing and throbbing.

Her mind cleared and she was fully awake, but the dream felt almost tangible. She looked around the room, expecting to see Viago watching her from a dark corner. But no, she was all alone, and it was almost dawn. She had no trouble getting back to sleep, even though her bed felt too big.

  


And now she’s frowning in the mirror, and Tessie is asking her what she would like for breakfast.

“What do you think of Viago, Tessie?”, she asks.

Tessie looks at her reflection, a sudden blush on her cheeks. She clears her throat before she speaks. “He’s very nice. To be honest, ma’am, I’ve only seen him a couple of times. Agnes hired me, and he doesn’t require my services. When he’s here, he spends most of his time in his study, and I don’t really have to bring him anything, because… you know… he doesn’t eat or drink anything.”

Tessie smiles. “He asked me if I could read, which I can. He told me I was free to read any book from his library.” She blushes again. “I think he’s handsome. My mother says raven-haired men know everything there is to know about a woman.”

Tessie looks away, face flush with embarrassment. Clara laughs. Tessie has a crush! She doesn’t blame her; if the circumstances were different, she would also find Viago attractive. What is she thinking? If her dreams are any indication, she already finds him attractive. She sighs. “Eggs and toast with a lot of jam, Tessie. Lots of it”.

  


Twilight makes her nervous. She wonders if Viago wakes up as soon as the last ray of sunlight disappears behind the cloak of dusk. Or maybe he needs to check, and he goes downstairs and carefully moves the curtains, gleeful relief on his face as he sees nighttime has come.

She spent some time in the garden today, moving around and letting the sun shine on her face. She hates the idea of withering away in a lonely bedroom, and she hates the idea of dying.

There’s still plenty to live for, Clara says to herself. And even if it makes her fidgety and restless, she still likes watching the sun set. She hears Agnes singing somewhere; she has a deep, rich voice, full of melancholy. Tessie must be in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

It’s dark now, and Clara wants to race down the hallway and open Viago’s door. Is he still in that coffin? Does he stretch before he gets out? Does he sleep fully clothed? By the time her mind has finished formulating the last question, she realizes she’s almost at his door. _What the fuck_.

She looks back, but there’s no light, she didn’t turn any lights on. She hears steps and _oh God_ , Viago is opening the door. She freezes, her feet firmly planted on the ground.

“Clara?” Viago approaches her with tremendous caution; one would think he’s walking toward a dangerous animal. “Yes, Clara”, she mutters.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m great! You? How was your trip?”

She notices she’s almost shouting, and looks down, mortified. That stupid dream is all she can think about. Viago has turned on the lights in the hall. He gives her a timid smile.

“Good, thank you.”

“Good”, she nods. Dying doesn’t sound so terrible, actually. Dropping dead right now would be _great_.

“Did you sleep well last night?”, he asks her.

Tessie’s face that morning was a mild pink compared to her own cheeks right now. Is he mocking her? Can vampires read minds? She really needs to ask him what he can and can’t do. But Viago looks as demure as ever, his eyes big and his half-smile sheepish.

“Yes. It was you who took me to my room, yes? I’m sorry, I didn’t plan to fall asleep in the study, and I remember taking about 20 different books from the shelves, and I didn’t put them back, although Agnes didn’t say anything this morning, but it was still thoughtless of me, such tedious work, putting books back…”

She’s rambling, she knows she’s rambling, but she can’t stop, he needs to stop her, she mentally urges him to shut her up already, but he doesn’t, he would never interrupt her, he’s too polite.

“…I haven’t been in the study today, maybe she left them there, and after dinner I will go and put them back, I must have left quite a mess behind, how inconsiderate of me, don’t you think?” Finally. She has finally stopped talking. Viago is openly smiling now, a big, warm smile that makes _her_ smile, like an idiot.

“I put them back. Don’t worry about it, you’re more than welcome to make that mess again, any mess you want, really, I don’t mind. And the settee is more comfortable than it looks, and it looks quite comfortable, doesn’t it? Great for reading, and for sleeping, and for… other activities, like knitting.” He clears his throat and looks away. Well, they have something in common: blabbering like idiots. And… knitting? Viago must think he needs to protect her innocence.

“I am no maiden”, she says before she can even think about stopping herself. Viago nods.

“I know.”

Clara wishes she had the gall to pretend to faint so she doesn’t have to keep participating in this conversation. “Agatha told you?” Viago nods again. “Ha, I’m surprised she disclosed that. I thought she would lie when you asked.”

“I didn’t ask”, Viago says softly. Clara is a little taken aback. Men want untouched wives, and she thought vampires did not differ in that regard. They are still men. Viago seems to follow her train of thought, because he just shrugs.

“I’m quite sure you are the same Clara you were before your tryst with Ian.”

Clara wants to speak, but she doesn’t know what to say. He is right, of course. Fucking Ian didn’t make her any different. Well, it showed her a man is a poor substitute for her own hand: it was a rather mediocre lay. Would it be the same with Viago? Her dream blossoms again in her mind, unbearably vivid. Ian didn’t… he didn’t use his mouth to stimulate her, only his fingers, which were calloused and clumsy. Viago has long, almost delicate fingers. And his mouth looks soft and pliant

She doesn’t remember stepping forward, yet she is closer to Viago than she was a minute ago. She had whispered his name in the midst of her pleasure, convinced he was there, between her open legs. And now he’s so close, close enough for her to pick up the smell of his clothes. Fabric softener. She almost wants to sniff him, like a dog.

“Ah! There you are. Dinner is…” Agnes doesn’t finish her sentence. Her voice snaps Clara out of her trance. She had taken yet another step forward, but she wasn’t sure it had been out of her own volition.

Viago’s eyes are dark, his mouth is slightly open. Clara turns, aware of Agnes’ presence.

“I’m starving”, she exclaims. Agnes makes an ‘after you’ motion with her head, and before following Clara downstairs, she shoots Viago an amused look. He lets out a trembling sigh and wishes no one were home so he could bang his head on the wall over and over and over.

  


“May I come in?”, Clara asks. Viago closes the book he was reading —or at least trying to read— and puts it on the desk.

“Yes, of course.”

Clara marches in, and he thinks, not for the first time, that he likes how she moves. She’s not the most graceful of women, but she does have a… feline air to her. She moves like she’s ready to pounce.

She sits on the settee, facing him. “I just wanted to ask you some questions, if that’s alright with you.” Viago wants to sit next to her, but decides against it. She chose the settee for a reason: it’s far from him. He gives her a single nod. Clara looks at her hands. He thinks, for the very first time, that she is nervous.

“What can you do? I mean… What can vampires do?”

Viago smiles. Is this a good sign? That she wants to know more about him?

“Many things. I can move very quickly, so I can cover long distances in a short period of time. I can turn into different animals, but the easiest one is bat.” Clara’s eyes are wide with curiosity.

“Can you turn into a dog?”

“Yes, I can. And into a cat, and a snake. But that’s it.”

She nods. “I like dogs. We had a dog, Dante, but he died a few months ago. I think father poisoned him so he wouldn’t have to feed him anymore.” Her tone is harsh, resentful. Viago wonders if her relationship with her parents is broken beyond repair. Probably so, and his role in it is… reprehensible, to say the least.

"We… You can get a dog, if you want. They are weary of vampires, so you would be solely responsible for its care. But there’s plenty of room for one or two.”

Clara’s eyes light up, and she gives him the biggest and brightest smile since they met. Viago gets such a desire to kiss her that he has to close his eyes for a second.

“That would be lovely. They are amazing creatures”, she says. He nods as he opens his eyes.

“Can you fly?”, she asks. Viago chuckles.

“Not in my human form. I can levitate, but no more.”

“Can you read people’s minds?”

He shakes his head. That would be quite a skill. “No, I can’t. But I can hypnotize them. We call it glamouring.”

Clara frowns. “Have you done it to me?”

He knew that would be her next question. Before, in the hallway, she had blushed furiously during their conversation, but he suspected it wasn’t because of her memories of the infamous Ian. She knew he had carried her to her bedroom; not a difficult conclusion to reach, since Agnes and Tessie go to bed early and neither of them are strong enough for the feat. Nor would they be inclined to do so even if they were; they simply would have woken Clara.

Viago suspects Clara had a dream about him, and that’s why she is so agitated. It would not be particularly noteworthy; it is not uncommon for humans to dream about vampires that live near them. Agnes herself admitted to having a dream about Viago when she started working for him: in it, they tended the garden together in the middle of the night.

The nature of these dreams varies according to the relationship between the human and the vampire in question. Agnes sees Viago as a son, so in her dream they did something a mother and her son could do together. He knows Tessie has a girlish crush on him, so her dream —or dreams— might be more erotic. As for Clara… he can only guess.

They are married, but haven’t consummated their union. Clara seems to despise him, and her hostility is not entirely unjustified. However, her behavior in the hallway suggested her dream might have been of a more carnal nature. He could ask her, but he lacks the courage. It might help them bridge the distance between them, but it could also push her further away. So he lets it be.

“No.”

He wants to elaborate, but what else could he say? He hasn’t done it, hasn’t thought about it. Vladislav suggested it, because of course he would, but that’s a line he has not yet crossed. Glamouring women into sex sounds just so… unscrupulous. And he would not do it to his own wife. He aches for her, for her touch, for her warmth. But he wants her to ache for him, too.

Wouldn’t it be great if she could read his mind? He stands up and moves toward the window.

“I want you very badly, Clara. Being close to you is a torment. Do you have any idea how good you smell? Your hair, your skin, everything about you is soft and shimmering and so very enticing. And you look even more bewitching with your cheeks and neck all flush.” He stops. If he keeps talking, he’ll end up admitting how badly he wants to have her legs wrapped around his neck. His back is to her, so he misses the way her body shudders with his words.

“Maybe you only want me because I refuse you. Once you have me, you’ll discard me like a drained corpse.” She could have not chosen cruder words. Viago turns and sees Clara on her feet, a cold look in her eyes.

 _This woman is going to be the death of me_. He decides to indulge her futile indignation. That way they can both be miserable.

“Maybe. You fucked a penniless student out of wedlock; you’ll fuck a dead man sooner or later, and you’ll be fully ruined.”

He might as well have struck her. His mouth tastes like ash, and he feels so very tired. Perhaps he should get this farce of a marriage annulled, give her enough money to start fresh somewhere and forget it ever happened. Clara turns and leaves, slamming the door shut.

Maybe he will pick up some gardening skills, like in Agnes’ dream. But he’ll make sure to join her at high fucking noon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've borrowed some vampire stuff from True Blood. In chapter II Viago cries blood; in this chapter, he refers to the act of hypnotizing as glamouring (maybe I'm misspelling that, I'm too lazy to do research. Eh.) WWDITS doesn't mention if Viago can transform into animals -Deacon can turn into a dog, if I remember correctly, but fuck it, Viago can do anything in MY book. Except being smooth. 
> 
> Feel free to yell at me :D


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst? Angst.

Agnes and Tessie eat their supper in silence. Clara used to join them, but for the past week, she locks herself in her room at dusk. Viago had asked Agnes to make sure Clara was eating; he didn’t put it past her to starve herself out of pure spite. “That’s not really a problem”, Agnes said. “I think eating is her only pleasure these days.” Viago snorted.

Agnes was very direct, and he liked that. She was also efficient and discreet. She’d hired Tessie on his request, thinking Clara would need and/or want help. She didn’t; she often got ready by herself, before Tessie even knocked on her door. But Agnes soon learned that Clara enjoyed Tessie’s company: they are closer in age, and even share some interests, like reading. Even Agnes finds herself idle sometimes: there’s not much to do in the house. There are no mountains of linens to launder, nor big meals to cook everyday.

Viago, however, likes having someone in charge of his domestic affairs, and he pays them well. He’s aware of Tessie’s infatuation, but he seems completely uninterested in indulging. Clara knows, too, and she thinks it amusing. Viago could easily take Tessie as his mistress and Clara would be none the wiser. Or he’d make sure she knew, just to see how she would react.

Agnes dismisses that idea: Viago is many things, but petty isn’t one of them. And he respects Clara too much for that, even in the face of her contempt toward him. It’s not just respect, however: Viago is _obsessed_. He knew Clara would hate him at first, or perhaps even forever. But he was smitten the moment he laid eyes on her. He told Agnes that she was headstrong and unruly, traits most men would sneer at, but Viago found them alluring. He’s too soft for his own good, Agnes thinks.

She also thinks Clara is _very_ attracted to him, but she fights it out of pride and resentment. Such an intelligent young woman, but she could afford to be more pragmatic. Agnes sighs.

“How long do you think this is going to last?”, Tessie asks. Agnes shrugs. “They’re both stubborn idiots, so I don’t know.”

There’s something she’s curious about. “Would you accept to be his mistress if he asked you, Tessie?” The girl blushes and coughs. She doesn’t look at Agnes in the eye.

“I think Clara is a fool for refusing him, Agnes. But they are married. He has no business bedding other women. And I like Clara, and I respect her. So no, I would not.” Agnes smiles.

“Now, if they get an annulment…” Agnes laughs. Maybe Tessie will get her wish in the long run.

  


The lad’s name is George. He’s young and fit, no indications of illness, and Viago smells none in his blood. He’s sweet; timid, almost. But this isn’t his first time. Viago likes that he smells like books: he’s a tutor. His skin is soft and fair. Viago gives his neck a lick or two before he bites him. The boy trembles in his arms, and fuck, Viago can feel himself getting hard.

George’s hand is now in his hair, and he lets out a lecherous moan. A few more moments of gasping and light thrashing and he’s finished. Viago licks the wound to heal it. Then he punctures his index finger and gives George a few drops of his blood, to speed up his recovery. George hums, content. Then he presses his hand against Viago’s groin, feeling his hardness with his fingertips.

“You can fuck me, too, if you want.” Viago smiles and shakes his head. He would have, in the past. But he has a beautiful wife at home. A beautiful wife he hasn’t seen in ten days, and who doesn’t let him touch her. He pays George and heads home.

Clara’s light is on. He wonders what she’s doing. Reading, probably. She took a bunch of books from the study to her bedroom they day after their conversation.

Passing by her door is almost torture. He can smell her, even with a heavy door in the way. The citric scent of her hair; the flowery smell of her perfume, the salt of her sweat, everything.

One night he picked up the heady scent of arousal, and he stood by her door, entranced. Was she touching herself? She was. His hearing is not as acute as his sense of smell, but he heard a low moan and he just leaned against the door and closed his eyes, an overwhelming wave of defeat washing over him. The things _he_ could do to her to make her moan, to make her unbearably slick with desire.

Once in his coffin, he masturbated furiously, hating no one but himself. He came hard, a picture of Clara on her knees in his mind.

The next day was worse. Clara’s menstrual bleeding had started. He cursed his windowless bedroom, the windowless hallway; he cursed this fucking house and everyone in it. He was in such a pissy mood even Agnes stayed away.

He decided to visit Vladislav; he would go mad stuck in a house with a bleeding wife who has barricaded herself away from him. Visions of Clara hounded him; her legs wide open and his head firmly put between them, licking her until she screamed, her moonblood on his face, branding him as hers.

At Vladislav’s he just shut himself away in one of the bedrooms, ignoring his attempts to drag him into a “private party”. He set to return after five days; Clara’s scent would be fainter and easier to ignore. And he had to eat something, for fuck’s sake.

  


Clara hears the front door opening. Viago is back. She puts the book down and waits. She knows it would be sensible of her to apologize; her remark had been extremely rude and unfounded. And Viago is growing tired of her outbursts; the coldness of his tone in his reply hit her like a sudden, bitter draft.

She was used to the softness of his voice, she liked that he was always warm and measured. Lately her mind is only able to evoke his face and his body when she pleasures herself, something she can’t stop doing these days. She always feels stupid afterward; the real thing is mere steps away, but she is too damn proud.

And now there is yet another crack in their relationship, one she does not know how to mend. She thought about going to the study and simply offering her sincere apologies. But when she gathered enough courage to face him, he had left.

Is this Vladislav his only friend? Where, exactly, does he live? What does he do while visiting this mysterious vampire? She remembers their conversation in the study, before it went south. A bit too formal for a married couple, but satisfying in its own way. Viago hadn’t been patronizing, and had given her straight, honest answers. She believed him when he said he had not hypnotized her. _Glamoured_ her.

Try as she might to deny and suppress her attraction, it’s there, palpable. She wants him. God, does she want him. She has imagined herself straddling his hips, his cock deep inside of her. What does his skin taste like? She wants to run her tongue along it, from shoulder to waist. She wants to take him in her mouth.

She hears steps coming up the stairs and the haze those images conjure disappears. Clara holds her breath.

Viago stops in front of her door. It would be so easy to walk toward it and open it. They would not speak. Their mouths would meet, hungry and eager. And her bed would stop feeling immense and lonely.

Clara doesn’t move, doesn’t dare exhale.

Viago doesn’t knock, and after a few moments, his footsteps vanish down the hallway.

For the very first time since her arrival in this house, she cries herself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More shameless theft from True Blood, i.e., the drinking vampire blood makes you recover super fast. In my defense, that show was a fucking blast. The last three seasons are utter garbage, though.


	6. VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An opportunity presents itself in the form of a long-haired old friend.

“Agnes, we are going to have a visitor. Can you please-“

Viago stops talking as soon as he walks into the kitchen. Clara is sitting at the table, eating with Agnes and Tessie. The three women look at him with three different expressions on their faces. Agnes looks quite pleased with herself. Tessie blushes, then smiles timidly. Clara also blushes, but her mouth is full so she doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t scowl at him, either; in fact, she looks apologetic.

The kitchen is brightly lit, and Viago can see Clara’s been spending a lot of time outside: her face has a gold-like hue, and her hair is a lustrous hazel. She is wearing the dress she wore the night they wed. He should have her picture taken; a keepsake for the days after she inevitably leaves.

“May I ask who is visiting?” Viago realizes Agnes is speaking, and turns to her. Agnes motions for him to sit, and he does, albeit reluctantly. He is between her and Tessie, right opposite Clara, who keeps herself busy with a glass of wine. They all have glasses of wine, he notices. He doesn’t want to think about what these women might discuss at this table while drinking.

“Yes. It’s Vladislav. I doubt he will spend the day, but do prepare a guest bedroom in case he does.”

Agnes nods. “Tomorrow night, I presume?”

Viago clears his throat. “Tonight, actually.” He’s looking at Clara, but he can _feel_ Agnes rolling her eyes.

“Well then, better get to it. Come and give me a hand, Tessie.” They stand and Tessie collects their plates and glasses. Clara watches them leave, her hand clutching her nearly empty glass. She looks lovely, as always. He can’t help but say it aloud.

“You look lovely. Blue suits you.” Clara gives him a soft smile.

“I’m sorry”, she murmurs.

“For what?”, his voice is just as low. She looks at him for a few seconds, then looks away. “For being so odious. What I said the other night… not only was it tactless, it was very unfair.”

He nods. “Yes. And so was my reply. I didn’t mean those words, but you were looking for a fight, and it was easier to yield than to try to appease.”

It’s her turn to nod in agreement. “Charles was right. I have always been difficult. It’s one of the very few devices I have at my disposal in this world.”

Viago hates that she is right. And he hates that he has used the system to his advantage and to her detriment. Yet agreeing would mean acknowledging the unpleasantness of their circumstances, and it would open a window for Clara that he wants to keep shut as long as possible. He wants her here, with him. He wants to spend time with her, to know her. His desire for her runs deeper than the physical layer she perceives, and perhaps it’s time he lets her know that.

“I don’t think you’re odious. You are hotheaded, yes, tremendously so. But it’s part of who you are, and please believe me when I tell you that I do not want you to change. I like that you are difficult.” He doesn’t say it’s what drew him to her in the first place.

That first night, in his study, her harsh demeanor and proneness to affront made him realize he didn’t want a diligent wife who _submits_. They may not be equals outside his front door, but they can be here.

Clara smiles, and as much as he likes her fiery nature, he likes her even more when she doesn’t look ready to hit him square in the face. It’s surprising she hasn’t tried.

He smiles as well. There’s a knock on the door.

“Can I meet him, your friend?”, she asks. Oh well. He had assumed Clara would stay locked away in the fortress of her bedroom for the foreseeable future, so he didn’t consider the implications of Vladislav’s visit. But he has no reason to keep them from meeting.

“Of course.”

They rise from the table and, as she passes by him, her shoulder grazes his chest. How he would like to pull her to him and kiss her. He sighs and follows her. He’s always sighing, damn it.

  


“A ball?”

Vladislav smirks. “Yes. The Unholy Masquerade. An assortment of our kind, a gathering to celebrate our resilience and endurance. And to catch up, naturally.” He winks at Viago, who just scoffs.

Clara bites her tongue. She is very intrigued by this vampire; he’s effortlessly charming and strangely seductive. He displays no bashfulness, like Viago often does, and it shouldn’t be surprising, since he is much older. Clara is sure that, were she married to someone he esteemed much less, this Vladislav would have zero objections to fucking her and draining her in this very room.

But he and Viago seem to be good friends, and he has not even alluded to the fact that she is not a vampire. He is speaking of this event as if both Viago and her have agreed to attend. She supposes Viago will, but she’s not sure she can, or if she would, if invited.

“Will The Beast be there?”, Viago questions. _The Beast?_ It’s decided then: she is not going.

Vladislav’s expression darkens. “I suppose. I may have failed to slay The Beast, but I will not let it govern my movements.”

Clara stands by the window, noticing it’s open. Sometimes she can almost forget _what_ she is married to. Not tonight. Viago laughs, and it’s impossible for Clara not to turn to the sound. This is the first time she is hearing it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and she notices his teeth are small and even, and his fangs look less threatening. The sound is clear and bubbly, and she likes it.

She gazes at him, standing by the desk, a glass in his hand. Vladislav had brought a bottle with him, and it was unsettling how much it looked like wine, at least from afar. Whose blood was it? Until tonight, she had not even considered the logistics of Viago’s… diet. How often does he need to feed? Does he have a preference? Does the person’s diet affect the taste of their blood?

She wants to ask these questions now; it would be interesting to compare their answers considering their differences in age, background and personality. But she does not care about Vladislav’s feeding habits, only Viago’s. And maybe —and this is really twisted— talking about this might prove to be an opportunity to get to know her husband a little more. So she keeps her mouth shut.

“Agnes has prepared a room for you, if you wish to stay”, Viago informs him. Vladislav looks at Clara.

“Viago here has an incredible hold of himself. A human wife, human servants, and he hasn’t tasted a drop of their blood.” Clara wants to look away, but she doesn’t. She will not be intimidated in her own home.

“Indeed. He is a man of many virtues”, she answers. Vladislav raises his eyebrows and looks briefly at Viago, who has put the glass down and straightened his posture. He doesn’t move toward them, but he is watching them like a hawk. Vladislav’s scrutinizing eyes are on her again. He has a way of being both playful and menacing in the way he looks at her.

There’s a question on his tongue, she knows there is. But he just smirks and turns to Viago. “Thank you, but I prefer to rest in my own home.”

He downs the rest of his glass and wipes his moth almost obscenely. Clara moves toward Viago and stands as close as she can without actually leaning on him. Her pulse quickens upon sensing how close he is. It’s fascinating that, for a dead man, he manages to give off substantial warmth. It’s probably all of those layers he wears, but it’s still comforting.

Vladislav eyes them and smiles. “Tomorrow night, dear friends. Tomorrow night!”

He heads toward the open window and, in less than a second, he’s a big red-eyed bat. Clara gasps and jumps as Vladislav flies out and disappears into the night.

“He has always been a showoff”, Viago says.

Clara nods as she moves to sit on the settee. Viago is still standing by the desk, so she pats the seat next to her. She’s tired; she spent all the afternoon in the garden with Agnes, and then had two glasses of wine at dinner, and one more in the study with Viago and Vladislav. She tries not to yawn and fails miserably.

“Sorry”, she whispers. Viago shakes his head, smiling.

“It’s alright. Don’t let me keep you from going to bed.”

Oh, he won’t. But there are things she needs to know first. “Why didn’t you say anything about this ball? I mean, not that you have to ask my permission…” She trails off. Realization is often embarrassing. They haven’t even had many conversations, at least not many civil conversations. What a stupid question to ask.

“I’m sorry, I just answered my own silly question”, she tells him. Viago is nodding his head, a faint smile on his lips. She tries again.

“How many times have you fed since we have been married?” She tries to be as blunt as possible. Viago looks away.

“Twice. Both times on my way home from Vladislav’s.”

Twice. So he does not need to feed as often as she had thought. That’s good, she thinks.

“Men? Women? Rich? Poor? Do you have a preference? Do you pay them? Do you kill them?” Once she starts, it’s hard to stop. She must know everything, no matter how unpleasant. Viago swallows hard. But he looks at her in the eye when he speaks.

“I don’t have a preference when it comes to sex. I do prefer them young, and healthy, of course. I don’t kill them, and I pay them, when they request it. If they are wealthy, they don’t ask for payment. The rich usually do it because they want to know what it’s like. The poor do it as they would any other labor, and I make sure to compensate them fairly.”

Clara is… relieved. She always pictured a horror show, a nasty fight in which Viago forcefully drinks an innocent’s blood while they squirm and plead. Viago’s account makes it sound quite… transactional. There is one more question, and it’s the most difficult one. She takes a deep breath and takes the plunge.

“Do you fuck them? Before or after?”

Viago wriggles in his seat and he looks away. “Yes. Not always, but yes. There’s this… arousing element to feeding. You are consuming a person’s life, or at least a part of it. It’s very powerful, and it’s extremely erotic. If you know and like the person you are feeding off, and if they are willing, it ends in… it can lead to passionate sex.”

“His name is George. The boy I have fed on since our wedding. He’s a tutor. Tutors don’t make much money. We don’t… we don’t fuck. I’ve wanted to, yes. He offers. But how could I?”

He looks at her, and he looks mortified. “For what it’s worth, I take my vows seriously. Regardless of the conditions of our marriage, you are still my wife, and I am still your husband.”

God, she is so tired, and Viago has showered her with a deluge of information, at her request, so she has no one to blame but herself.

And yet… she finds a strange comfort in it. She now knows more about Viago than she did when they married. She sees that Viago does indeed have outstanding self-control; it’s funny that she had never given it much thought until Vladislav brought it up. And the fact that he refused to have sex with this George person because of her —no, out of respect and consideration for her and for their union…

Clara remembers Agnes describing him to her that first night. How fondly she spoke of Viago. She thinks about Tessie and how easy it would be for Viago to take advantage of her, to use her feelings for him or, should she refuse —Tessie doesn’t strike her as a two-faced vixen—, to glamour her into compliance.

She takes Viago’s hand in hers, shivering at the coolness of it. It’s the first time they touch, the time he carried her to her bed notwithstanding.

“Thank you”, she says.

Viago presses her fingertips to his lips. “Come with me to the ball”, he whispers.

Clara smiles. “Yes.”

She had wanted to take a bath before bed, but she is exhausted. She goes to bed, twirling gowns and bloody fangs in her mind as she drifts to sleep.


	7. VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good time is had. A short, short good time.

Maybe it’s her décolletage.

Viago’s reaction was wildly entertaining: his eyes widened as they landed on her chest, and Clara could almost see his internal struggle to drag them upward. It was a hard-earned victory, but for whom, she could not say.

When his eyes finally reached her own —after lingering on the column of her throat for almost as long as they did on her breasts— they were dark and hungry. Her heart started beating much, much faster, and she realized that she did not mind that eager gaze; she actually liked it. _A lot_.

Was she to consider that a novelty? She had always found Viago attractive; it was the particulars of their union that she despised, and he, the main beneficiary of such a demeaning transaction, became the unequivocal outlet for her frustration and despair. But not for too long, and her body was the sole culprit.

Well, Viago himself had his part in it, too. Had he taken what law and society considered to be rightfully his from the beginning, she would have hated him forever. But Viago had respected that last tenet of her autonomy, and for that she was grateful. And her body had reminded her of that fact for the past two weeks.

At the moment, however, there’s a far more pressing matter: if she were watching the scene from afar, she would say without hesitation that a poor young woman is about to be eaten alive.

  


Her dress is a deep burgundy, and, in retrospect, Clara will see that was the first mistake. Should she willingly surround herself with vampires again, she’ll know not to wear something that makes her look like a walking chalice of blood. And, of course, the generous cleavage.

Weary of it at first, Clara wanted to change into something more conservative. Agnes and Tessie dissuaded her, claiming she looked ravishing. She did, indeed. It was one of the dresses Viago'd had made for her, maybe, even, with the Masquerade in mind. Her hair was done in an elaborate side braid, with loose strands on both sides of her face, giving her quite the coquettish look. They sent her off to the study, where Viago was waiting for her.

He was wearing a deep-violet frock coat, and his hair was slightly more voluminous than usual. He had two masks in his hand, one of which he offered to her —after the initial shock of seeing her.

"You are so beautiful”, he murmured against the back of her hand. Clara experienced a full-body shiver when she felt his mouth on her skin. They stood there for a few seconds, just looking at each other. Suddenly the ball lost its appeal. The study was warm and there were plenty of surfaces to…

“Christopher is waiting”, Agnes said outside the door.

“Stay close to me”, Viago warned.

He would utter the same sentence a few hours later, but with much more urgency.

  


“Here he is!”, Vladislav shouts. He approaches them with a toothy smile and a big, big hairdo. Viago takes Clara’s hand, not intending to let go. He knows most of the vampires here, and the news of his marriage to a human has traveled fast. They all eye them with curiosity; some, with derision.

“Clara, you look astonishing. The fairest of them all, I’d say”, he grins as he takes her free hand and bows dramatically. Clara laughs, a short but lively laugh that gives Viago a warm buzz all over. He looks at her and she smiles at him, and now the buzz is nonstop.

He feels almost… alive. She had been unusually unreserved in the car, and had sat close enough for him to smell the creamy skin of her neck. Her scent, he thinks, is like liquor: too much of it and he’ll have trouble walking straight. But he will happily stumble on every step for the rest of his life if he gets at least one chance to bury his face in the juncture of her neck and her shoulder.

“Come meet your husband’s other friends”.

They head toward a small group, and Viago smiles broadly as he sees Deacon and Nick. They make quite a rumpus as he approaches. “Gentlemen, this is Clara, my wife.”

She removes her mask and shakes their hands. Nick’s eyes never stray downward, but Deacon leers at her chest and then wiggles his eyebrows at Vladislav, who smirks but shakes his head. Viago can’t help but roll his eyes.

They are soon joined by Jackie, and they start a lively conversation. But Viago senses something. When he takes a quick look around, he sees many pairs of eyes on them. Not on all of them: on Clara. One of the staring attendees even licks her lips. But no one in their group seems to notice anything unusual. Even Clara seems engaged in the conversation, listening intently to the story Jackie is telling.

Viago relaxes a little. Vladislav goes to greet someone, and Nick and Deacon are now arguing over something Viago did not catch, and Clara and Jackie are sharing an amused look. “I like your jacket”, Clara says, looking at Nick. He nods smugly and then glares at Deacon, who grunts and leaves.

“He is always like that”, Jackie explains. A man approaches them and asks Jackie for a dance. She smiles and winks at them as they walk away. Nick coughs. “I’m going to see who else is here”, he mumbles, and leaves. Viago turns to Clara.

Dancing! He scolds himself mentally for not thinking of it sooner. He offers her his hand, and she gives him a smile that would make his heart beat out of his chest if he were alive. Her touch is light but confident. Just as they start moving toward the floor, a man flashes in front of them.

“Aren’t you a mouthwatering little thing?” he growls at Clara. Her grip turns ironlike, and her face grows pale.

“Pietro! Good to see you again, you old geezer”, Viago chirps. Pietro looks at Viago with ill-concealed disdain.

“A human wife? I gotta say, Viago, that’s an outstanding move. Too smart for ya, am I right? Who gave you the idea?” Others are starting to listen to their conversation, and carefully approaching.

“She is indeed too smart for me. And a great dancer, so if you'll excuse us—” He has been slowly walking them toward the entrance, but Pietro is too stupid to notice. But now more vampires are gathering ‘round, some standing between them and the big, wooden doors.

“Smart, eh? I wouldn’t call a harlot who walks into a ballroom full of vampires smart. But that’s just me”, he chuckles, and his laughter is echoed by others.

“Stay close to me”, he whispers to Clara.

“Her name is Clara. I suggest you use it if you’re going to refer to her, though I’d very much rather you didn’t”, Viago says coldly.

Pietro is older than he is, and much stronger. But he will not let him or anyone disrespect Clara. He wants to turn to her, to reassure her, but he can’t afford to take his eyes off Pietro. Her hand is still in his, and he’s holding onto it as strongly as he can without hurting her.

“What’s this hassle about?” a woman shouts. She looks slightly disheveled to Viago, who quickly recognizes her as she stands by Pietro.

“Pauline”, he greets.

“Viago, dear, congratulations are in order, aren’t they? Is this your bride? My, my, what a scrumptious little thing”, she snickers. Pietro’s mouth twists in a wolfish grin.

“That’s just what I was saying. In fact, I would say everyone here agrees, do they not?”, he asks as he turns to their audience. There is a murmur of agreement.

Viago sees Nick frowning in a corner. If push comes to shove, some help would be appreciated.

“She is _my wife_. Only _I_ feed on her. She is _mine_.”

Some of the vampires do retreat. A claim of ownership is often enough to keep other vampires away from a target. But Pietro thinks himself above such claims.

“She smells fucking fantastic, Viago. You always did have a refined taste, I’ll give you that”, he sneers. A man, one he does not recognize, steps forward and sniffs Clara from behind. Viago reacts by pure instinct: he takes him by his jacket and flings him across the room. His spine collides against a column with a satisfying crack. That will take a few weeks to heal, he thinks.

“She. Is. Mine. And I will not hesitate to kill anyone who even looks in her direction”, he snarls. He turns to Clara, who is trying really hard not to let her shaking be noticed.

“Go to the car and tell Christopher to drive you home as fast as he can”, he whispers.

She shakes her head. “I’m not leaving you.”

Not the best time to want to hold her and kiss her, but the need washes over him and he has to restrain himself. He takes a deep breath.

“Go. Now”, and his tone is so harsh Clara’s breath hitches. Luckily, they are closer to the doors than they were before. And he had noticed Vladislav —who looks just as disheveled as Pauline — was standing near the entrance.

Vladislav pushes past the vampires standing near the doors and opens them. Clara shoots Viago one last look and walks out. Pietro hisses loudly.

“You dare bring a human to our soirée, and then have the nerve to be angry when we make a couple of jokes!”, he yells.

Jokes? Viago is _livid_.

“I know you, Pietro. You have the self-control of a human child”, he scowls. He steps closer until Pietro is mere inches away.

“You disrespected her. You threatened her. Do not make jokes to or about my wife, do you hear me?”

Pietro growls and grabs him by his frock. “I could snap you in half, you insolent swine. Do _you_ hear _me_? You are nothing, nothing! And that wife of yours is less than nothing.”

Pietro’s fingers are digging into his chest, and he’s starting to pierce the flesh. Viago groans in pain.

“Enough!”, Pauline cries out. Pietro looks at her, the furious haze covering his gaze fading a little. Ah! He has a thing for her.

“Leave him be, Pietro. He is young and in love. I think that’s adorable. Don’t you remember that feeling, old man?” Pauline giggles, and the other vampires chuckle as well. One or two even sigh, as if in fond remembrance. Pietro lets go of Viago.

“Get out”, he spits. Viago walks toward the doors without making eye contact with anyone. He may know most of these vampires, but he gives two shits about them. All he can think about is Clara at home, safe. He has no way of knowing she had made it safely to the car, but no guests seemed to be amiss.

“Where are Nick and Deacon?”, he asks Vladislav, and as soon as he finishes the question, they appear by the gates.

“We walked Clara to the car. Very brave, that one. Congratulations on the wedding, by the way”, Nick says.

Viago nods. “Thank you. And thank you for protecting her.”

“Young and in love. I think we all remember that feeling”, Vladislav says, sounding… dreamy, maybe?

Deacon jeers. “Speak for yourself.” Nick rolls his eyes.

“How was the wedding night?” Deacon questions. Vladislav wriggles his eyebrows, and Nick chuckles. Viago scoffs, then smiles. “Every night has been like the wedding night”, he states and they all laugh and Deacon cackles.

Viago is still a little nervous, but since technically they are outside the party, Pietro can’t bother them. And he won’t; he’s following Pauline around like a dog in heat, and Vladislav has noticed.

The others are talking, but his mind is on Clara. She had sounded so determined when she said she wasn’t leaving him. And she had been incredibly brave in the face of danger.

 _A mouthwatering little thing_. That may have been the first description he would have given back when he met her for the very first time. But not now. Now he would describe her as fierce and courageous. And beautiful and soft, too. And… she should be home by now. If he gets there fast, he’ll catch her before she goes to bed.

Has she taken off her dress yet? Has she undone her braid? He waves his friend goodbye and sprints home.


	8. VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What starts with F and ends with ucking finally?

Clara cannot stop pacing back and forth.

She's in the study, nervously looking out the window every minute. She isn’t worried about a vampire following her home. Viago had given Christopher a revolver with silver bullets in case anything happened at the Masquerade, and Christopher is outside, standing guard. She wishes she could send him home, but even if she does, he won’t listen to her. He works for Viago, and Viago has given him a responsibility he cannot abandon.

But Clara is not concerned for Christopher’s safety, nor her own. She is worried about Viago. That Pietro fellow (is he The Beast?) looked awfully eager to drain her, and the others jumped at the chance to get a taste of her. He could have easily retaliated and tried to hurt Viago instead. The thought terrifies her. She does not know how this marriage will end, or if it will, but she absolutely doesn’t want Viago to die.

God, what a couple of idiots she and Viago were. They should have known better. If they had stayed in the study, like she briefly considered before they left for the ball, he would be here, safe, with her. They could be…

 _She is mine_. The way Viago had said those words tore right through whatever defenses she had left at this point. _Yes_ , she had wanted to say. _Yes, I am his. I am yours_. His tone admitted no refusal. His body language, protecting and caring toward her and menacing and dangerous toward them. She had never felt so close to him, so unbothered by their circumstances.

She had wanted nothing more than to run out of that ball with him, to lead him to some dark alley where he could take her, where he could fuck her senseless. And now her hands are twisting nervously, her eyes swollen with unshed tears. He has to be alright. His friends were there, they must have helped him. She wants to rip her dress and scream and weep. _Where are you? Please come back to me, we have unfinished business_.

A shadow outside the door startles her. She hears the front door being opened and closed shut, and hurried footsteps up the stairs. They stop half-way through.

Clara has stopped breathing. She feels her airways closed shut with fear. The same footsteps rush back down and in less than a second the door to the study is nearly slammed off its hinges. Clara could cry of pure relief.

“Viago”, she whispers. And then she flings herself at him and hugs him, her momentum making him stumble backward, but he quickly circles her with his arms. He smells so good, so comforting. She never wants to break their embrace.

He holds her tight, his face in her hair, hers pressed against his chest. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Clara, please forgive me.”

Clara lets out a nervous laugh. “For what?”, she asks as she looks up at him. He wipes a tear she didn’t realize she had shed.

“For putting you in danger.” She shakes her head. “You are not the one who threatened my life. And you stayed behind, why did you stay behind? I thought I…” She falters over her words. Viago is watching her intently, his eyes so warm, so full of fondness that she trembles slightly.

She stands on her tiptoes and kisses him. His lips are cold, yet unbelievably soft. Viago runs his hands up her arms and sinks his fingers in her hair as he returns the kiss. It’s gentle at first, a tender exploration of their mouths. But when she opens her mouth to him and his tongue presses against her own, Clara feels the need to gather every single ounce of life in her and breathe it into his lungs with a bruising kiss.

She wants him to feel how much she yearns for him, for his touch, for all of him. She needs Viago to know how _alive_ he makes her feel. So she kisses him as if her life depended on it, she kisses him desperately, seeking the wetness of his tongue and the taste of his spit.

“Fuck me, Viago. Please”, she murmurs against his lips. Viago moans and breaks the kiss. 

“Say it again”, he demands. He's holding her head between his hands, and Clara turns to press her mouth to his palm, never breaking eye contact. She kisses his wrist and repeats her words. “Fuck me, please”, and Viago crashes his mouth against hers, his kiss feverish, unrelenting.

Unlike him, she requires oxygen to survive. Clara pulls away, and she is panting already. Viago’s mouth doesn’t stay idle: he’s kissing her neck, her shoulder. He licks her clavicle and scrapes his teeth on the delicate skin of her chest. She moans, loudly.

Fuck, the door is wide open. Viago, in a flurry of movement her eyes don’t even try to follow, closes the door and takes her in his arms in less than a second.

Clara rips his frock open and does the same to his shirt. She does not have the patience to undo all those little buttons. Viago lifts her up and pushes her against the wall by the window.

“Tell me you want me”, Clara moans. She caresses the skin of his chest, cool and moon-lit. Viago’s hips answer before his mouth does, driving into hers with a sensual roll.

“I want you”, he breathes, his mouth on Clara’s again. She never wants to have his mouth apart from her own. “I have wanted you since I laid my eyes on you. I have wanted you, soft and wet for me, Clara, begging for my mouth, for my cock. I want you, I want you, I will always want you.”

Her heart is beating so wildly she is afraid it will pump right out of her chest. His voice, his words are more than an expression of undiluted desire: they are a command. Her undergarments are soaked, and she wants to beg. She wants him to beg, too.

Viago takes her breasts in his hands, and, growling, rips her dress down the front. He lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, one hand on her other breast, the other on her hip, under her dress, his touch ardent and possessive. She moans, brazen and undeterred, giving herself completely to the desire that floods her veins and makes her almost delirious.

His mouth moves downward, and the next thing she sees is Viago on his knees, between her open legs. He takes one of her legs and perches it on his shoulder. “Oh, God”, she murmurs, and Viago recoils.

“Calls to Christian deities hurt”. Clara blushes, embarrassed. She knows that, but she is hardly thinking straight.

“I’m sorry.” Viago plants a soft kiss on her inner thigh. “It’s fine. Just keep making those noises, they’re lovely.” Clara laughs. Only Viago would describe wanton moaning as lovely.

He licks her through her underwear and she hisses. She is so wet already, and Viago pushes the garment to the side and sucks on her swollen nub and the noise she lets out is downright filthy.

“Fuck, Clara, I have wanted to taste you so badly.” Another hard suck, and another, and another. Viago tears her underwear right off her hips without breaking the rhythm of his mouth. He flicks the tip of his tongue against her, too, and it’s too much, it’s not enough, _more_ , she needs more, “more”, her voice both high and coarse, “don’t stop, please.”

Viago hums and slips two fingers inside, his mouth still on her, open and wet and eager, the most intimate part of herself for him to conquer and devour.

Clara snaps like a coil. Her body shudders against the wall, her pleasure so overpowering she feels she will dissolve into the air. She's panting, her body lax and pliant after being deliciously strained. Viago’s mouth flutters from knee to hip, giving her time to recover.

He raises himself and kisses her, a slow and sensual kiss that makes Clara whimper in his mouth. Her hands move toward his pants, her fingertips grazing the hardness beneath.

“Is that what you want?”, Viago murmurs. _Begging for my mouth, for my cock_. She tugs him free and wraps her hand around it. His cock is big and velvety smooth. She slides her hand up and down a couple of times, relishing his grunts of pleasure.

“Clara”, he breathes.

“Fuck me, Viago. Please, please, please…” Viago snatches one of her legs and curls it around his waist. Clara guides him inside, her eyes wide open and fixed on his. It’s slow, torturously slow, and yet she wishes she could make it last a little bit longer.

The way he fills her, inch by inch, his fingertips pressing down on the meat of her thigh, his other arm around her waist, his big, brown eyes on her, jaw slackened, mouth open and inviting. She refuses to close her eyes, she wants a mental picture of this moment, of this man, of his desire.

His hips are firmly placed between her thighs, and he stretches her open, he makes her yield, and she does so very willingly, and he withdraws and slides back in and _fuck_ , she thinks it, she murmurs it, she wants him to hear how good it feels to have him inside of her. Viago starts moving, still slowly, the sway of it languid and patient, as if they had all night. 

“You’re so warm, so wet for me. I knew your cunt would be perfect, fuck, fuck” his voice is a low hum of blind lust.

She draws him closer, she wants to feel all of him, and he obliges, Clara cannot imagine any circumstance in which Viago would not oblige, so she kisses him and moans into his mouth, “harder”.

He grunts and drives into her harder, slightly picking up his pace, and he bites her lip, and she shudders in his arms because he’s so cold but so hot at the same time. Viago sneaks his hand between them and touches her right above where their bodies are joined, where she wants him most.

The friction of his cock in and out of her, of his fingers on her sensitive flesh slowly push Clara toward another climax. “Tell me I’m yours”, she sighs.

Viago grunts and fucks her harder. “You’re mine. You’re mine, Clara, only mine.” The roll of his hips is unforgiving now, pushing her against the wall with renewed momentum. “Say it”, he orders.

Clara forces herself to keep her eyes open. “I’m yours. Only yours, Viago. Only-“

A sharp gasp leaves her, and then the world crumbles around Clara. Her vision goes black and she holds on tightly to Viago. The pleasure hits her and consumes her and she drags it out, her cunt squeezing his cock in the aftershocks of her orgasm.

He moans and shakes, his pace quickening and his rhythm hardening and his hips slam into her as he buries his cock as deep as he can, a strangled groan echoing in her ear, his body going completely lax mere seconds later.

Their bodies are still entwined, his hand spanning her waist, the pads of his fingers digging into the flesh of her back. His head rests on the curve of her shoulder. She needs to catch her breath before she even attempts to move.

Now that her mind is somewhat clear, she can’t help but regret her stubbornness. They could have been doing _this_ all along. But they have plenty of nights ahead of them.

Viago stirs and looks at her. She caresses his cheek and he leans into the touch.

“We still have a few more minutes until sunrise”. 

He snakes an arm behind her knees, his other around her back and scoops her off the floor. Clara’s cheeks grow red. This is how he took her to her bedroom that night. She feels feather-light and safe. And _very_ exposed.

Viago gently lies her down onto her bed. He fetches a nightgown and helps her put it on.

“You positively ravished me, yes, but I’m not an invalid”, she chuckles, and Viago snorts. They are sitting on the bed, across from one another.

There is so much tenderness in his eyes that Clara feels her chest bloom with warmth. He takes her hand and brings the tips of her fingers to his lips, just like he did the night before. That night feels like forever ago. But the feeling that simple gesture inspires in her is the same.

“See you tomorrow evening?” Viago whispers.

Clara nods and smiles. “See you tomorrow evening.”


	9. IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marriage is not that terrible, after all.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Viago frowns. George’s cheeks are flush; Viago can sense his arousal, which he tries to pass off as restlessness. “Go ahead”.

“Why don’t you feed on your wife?” Viago’s brow furrows even more.

“How do you know I have a human wife?” He knows it’s a foolish question, and George’s reply confirms it. “Everyone knows everything about the vampires who live in these towns.” Everything? Doubtful. But George is not entirely wrong: vampires are the objects of a lot of curiosity. It makes sense the news of his wedding to a human traveled fast.

“Don’t think me rude, George, but that is no concern of yours. Are you displeased with our arrangement?”

George is quick to say no, and apologizes profusely. Viago cannot tell if it’s because he’s afraid he will hurt him or because he can’t afford to lose this source of income. Probably both.

“Thank you, George. I’ll see you next week.”

He woke up famished this evening, and had to force himself not to suck George dry. He is very fond of the boy’s fair skin and eagerness to please —the latter reminds him of himself in his youth. But unlike previous times, he didn’t have to fight the urge to bend him over and fuck him raw.

Piercing that pale neck and feeling his blood coat his throat was as arousing as ever, but the desire to succumb to that impulse was weaker. The memory of the night before is deliciously vivid; Clara’s soft body pressed against his; the taste of her on his tongue; his hips between her spread legs, his cock ramming into her warm cunt again and again.

Fuck, he’s getting hard just remembering it. Clara telling him she is his and only his. Clara drawing him closer and closer, the swirl of her tongue in his mouth. Clara moaning with abandonment, lost in a wave of desire and pleasure. Clara, Clara, Clara. Now that he’s had her, he wants her even more.

Tonight he’ll fuck her in her bedroom, on her bed. And, if she lets him, he will rest his head upon her chest and listen to the beating of her heart, as he has wanted to do since he met her.

Maybe, if the night is kind and lasts a little bit longer, he will let himself drift off with her soft heartbeat against his temple and her hand on the coolness of his cheek.

  


Clara brushes her hair in front of the mirror.

Agnes had told her that Viago had left as soon as it was dark, but that he would be back shortly. He’s feeding, he has to be. She tries to paint a picture of George in her mind. Is he blond or dark? What color are his eyes? What does he tutor? Do his pupils know a vampire sinks his teeth on his neck and drinks his blood?

She then tries to imagine Viago feeding on the boy. Do they do it sitting down or standing up? Does Viago bite him from behind? If he does, do his hands roam George’s body? Not fucking him does not mean not touching him. What constitutes fucking, anyway? Does George get down on his knees and suck Viago’s cock?

Her pulse quickens at that last image. She finds it… quite erotic, actually. She shakes her head and sighs. Today she slept late, and she woke up to find her torn dress gone. So if Tessie knows, Agnes knows. Clara expected them to throw mischievous smiles her way, but they didn’t.

They had breakfast in the kitchen, and when they finished their chores, they joined Clara in the garden. Their company is comforting and reassuring; Agnes treats her with the same affection she treats Viago, and Tessie likes to chat about basically anything.

Her reflection shows a woman with glossy brown hair and reddened cheeks. The ache in her muscles is not visible, luckily. Clara smiles and her face grows even more flush when she remembers the previous night.

Viago had been right from the beginning. _If we ever consummate this marriage, you will want it. You will beg me for it._ She had wanted it. She had begged for it. And she had enjoyed every second of her surrender.

Remembrance is not enough, however. She wants to relive it again, and again, and again. She wants Viago everywhere; she wants every wall and table and desk and carpet to witness their passion. But there is one last hindrance: his hunger. She does not want him to disappear at dusk one night a week and run who knows where to feed.

Clara moves to stand by the window. She is seized by a sudden reverie: Viago, clad in his dark clothes, standing behind her. He is kissing her neck, his lips soft on her skin. The window glass offers her the picture of a lone woman in a simple gown, her head tilted to the side.

Viago’s hand is cupping one breast; his other hand is snuck under her dress, between her thighs. She feels his teeth grazing the delicate skin of her shoulder, moving up the column of her throat. And then searing pain. Clara opens her eyes, startled. She turns and sees Viago at her door.

  


Clara is facing the window. Her hair smells like fruit, and so does her skin. And, if he concentrates, he can pick up her scent, the one he tasted first hand last night.

She turns to face him, and her cheeks are immediately tinged with a lovely pinkish hue. Viago smiles. He steps into the room and closes the door.

“Did you sleep well?”

Clara nods. “Yes. You?”

“Well, in the interest of precision, I should say that I don’t really sleep.” How to describe it? “It’s more of a… lapse of semi-unconsciousness. Does that make sense?”

Clara gives him a playful frown. “So you are not entirely unconscious, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“So if I were to open your door while you are in your coffin, you would hear it? You would sense my presence?”

“I would, yes. I’m aware of my surroundings, but not as alert as I am when I am what you would call awake.”

Clara laughs. “Well, that sounds terrible. I love sleeping. The point of it is to be unaware of your surroundings. A blissful void.”

Viago can’t help but laugh as well. He didn’t sleep much when he was alive, either. But Clara sure makes it sound appealing.

“So”, she continues, “I take it you don’t really feel tired, since you don’t really sleep.”

“That is true.” He is standing in the middle of the room, and Clara motions for him to sit on the bed. “The windowless room and the coffin… they are more about avoiding daylight than about resting. But it does feel nice to disengage from reality for a while, even if it’s not a full disconnect.”

He notices her bed is unmade. She is wearing a simple dress, dark green. No undergarments. And her feet are bare. She looks like a forest fay, dark allure dripping from her pores. She stands in front of him, and Viago gulps. He thought he would be initiating this encounter; he thought wrong.

“May I?”, she asks, her hand gesturing to his lap. “Please”, he whispers.

She sits astride his legs, her hands resting on his neck. “I want… I want to fuck you like this. Will you let me?” Her eyes are bright and her mouth is parted and so, so close to his. Viago licks her lower lip then kisses her. Clara sighs in his mouth. He drags one finger along the swell of her breast. When her tongue touches his, he presses her against him.

“You can fuck me however you want”, he whispers. Clara grinds herself on his groin and he grunts in pleasure. They are fully clothed, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Can I tear off this dress, too?” Clara laughs softly, and that sound will be the death of him. It fills him with such longing he can almost feel his chest constrict.

“Not yet”, she murmurs. She frees his cock, unbelievably hard already. She licks her hand and gives it a few languid strokes. _What a little vixen_. She wants to ride him, and he wants her to ride him. But he would also like to see her slide down to her knees and suck his cock. The night is young, he thinks.

She takes his hand in hers. “Touch me like you did last night”, she requests. He gladly complies, finding her flesh swollen and wet. Viago seeks her mouth as he touches her; he can’t get enough of her, of her skin, of her taste. She moans and trembles against him, and he circles her with his free arm.

“Fuck”, he hears her whisper. She takes his cock in her hand and in one swift motion, he’s inside of her. “Oh”, she moans. It’s a sweet little sound and he swallows it, hungry for more. Clara starts moving her hips, a sultry pattern that makes him hold on tight and bite her lip.

Her hands are on the back of his neck, her thumbs caressing his earlobes as she sways on top of him. Viago realizes the heat of her cunt has distracted him from her pleasure. He traces her lower lip with his thumb and Clara sucks it into her mouth.

“Good girl”, he breathes. He presses his thumb against her, and she writhes and grinds her hips against his.

“Now, tear it off now”, she almost screams, and Viago, obedient as ever, rips her dress with his hands. Clara moans and arches her back. Viago licks a wet stripe across her breast and presses his mouth to her nipple and his finger to her center and she comes undone, thrashing and shaking.

Her cunt becomes almost too tight, her muscles clamping down on his cock, and Viago is able to hold himself right above the precipice of his own pleasure for a few seconds just so he can witness Clara’s abandon. What a sight to behold. And then he meets his own climax, his fingers digging into her flesh and his face pressed against the curve of her shoulder, happily drowning in Clara’s softness and scent.

She runs her fingers through his hair in a way that he could call loving, if he dared. How many nights until he dares? Or, better yet, until he is certain? He takes her face in his hands and kisses her.

There’s a knock on the door. Clara frowns and looks at her chest, and that makes her chuckle. “Tessie?”

“Agnes. I… I regret to inform that Mr. and Mrs. Dumas have called. They’re in the study. I will keep them company while you two get ready.” Viago looks at Clara, and they burst out laughing at once.

“I honestly would prefer to learn that Agnes can see through doors, because otherwise I was being too loud.”

She gets on her feet and walks toward the wardrobe. Viago watches as she chooses one dress, discards the one she is wearing —what’s left of it— and dons the other one. He is utterly enthralled by the effortless… domesticity of it. She moves to the boudoir and gives her hair a few brushes before braiding at lightning speed.

He could watch her all night. This is a Clara he hasn’t gotten a chance to see. His wife, just… getting ready. He stands and walks to the boudoir, picking up a dainty necklace. “May I?” She turns and he clasps it swiftly. But neither moves.

Clara’s eyes are on the mirror. Viago glances in its direction and sees a woman standing all by herself. “I’m right here”, he murmurs.

He kisses the nape of her neck, and her eyes flutter closed as her head lulls to the side. He wraps himself around her, soaking up the warmth that seeps through her skin. Clara rests her arms on his and twines her fingers with his own, and they stand like that for a few seconds.

The rumor of voices coming from downstairs brings them back to reality. Clara lets out a long, tired sigh. Viago takes her hand.

“Come, let’s make this quick. The night is long and I don’t want to waste it looking at your parents when I can spend it watching you writhe in overwhelming pleasure.” Clara laughs. Good thing his heart doesn’t beat, he would be arrhythmic by now.


	10. X.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old habits die hard.

Viago watches Clara.

She’s sitting at his desk, elbows resting on the table, face in her hands, eyes on the ceiling. She has made it very clear that she does not intend to participate in the conversation. She’d greeted her parents tersely and, since their questions were aimed at the room in general —“how’s everything? Marriage going smoothly?” — he’d had no choice but to answer them. Agnes, who had stayed on Clara’s request, is the only one whose effort to appear polite and interested has proven successful.

“Clara, my girl, you look well. Marriage suits you.” Charles Dumas tries to retrieve his daughter from her more than evident apathy. Big mistake.

“Yes, father. Unlike poor Ian, Viago is a man of many talents, but they don’t necessarily require a marriage license.”

Viago can only see Mr. Duma’s expression of utter regret from a distance, since he’s standing by the window. He can see, however, Mrs. Duma’s colossal eye-roll. And he can hear Agnes’ chortle.

“I trust you are treating my daughter well outside the bedroom, too”, Agatha says. That’s where Clara’s backbone comes from. He moves to sit on one of the armchairs, opposite Mrs. Dumas.

“You, more than anyone, know that Clara wouldn’t be sitting with us tonight if I weren’t.”

Agatha nods, but her brow is slightly furrowed. Viago wants to reassure her, to tell her that everyone in this room has Clara’s best interest at heart. But he says nothing. She must know her daughter would have run a long time ago if she felt so inclined. She must know Viago would not have tried to get her back. The debt would have been paid regardless.

But she stayed. Clara stayed, day after day, night after night. And Viago suspects the Dumas didn’t expect her to. They should have known better.

Agatha and Charles overstay their welcome, and when they finally leave, Clara is too tired and in too sour a mood to do anything other than sleep.

“Can I stay here until dawn?”

She nods, eyes closed already. “Take off your boots.”

He settles behind her, fully clothed. When he takes her hand in his, she brings them to her chest. Viago breathes in the scent of her hair and closes his eyes.

  


They fuck several more times before Clara sees Viago without any clothes on for the first time.

They fuck again in the study: Clara on the desk, Viago on his knees, his mouth dragging sinful noises out of her throat. He then proceeds to turn her around and take her from behind. That angle is absolutely _wicked_ ; she screams and moans and the more she screams and moans the harder Viago fucks her.

The next night Viago admits he has never laid down on the settee; he has rarely sat on it. Clara has him on his back, half-clothed and grunting as she rides him, her torn dress hanging off her arms like a vulgar vest.

Vampires, it turns out, have great stamina, and they recover astoundingly quickly. They are not done with the settee once Clara collapses on top of Viago, shaking and spent. He sets her on her knees, on the floor, and kneels behind her and pushes into her, her back pressed to his chest and his hand between her legs. He twists her hair around his hand and bites her neck when he comes.

“Sit on my face”, he commands, after her grip on the edge of the settee finally loosens. Viago lies down on the carpet and Clara crawls atop him. The flush of her orgasms still tints her cheeks, and it is deepened by her current position. But any mortification she feels quickly melts away as he starts licking her. She holds her dress around her hips so she can watch, and the tremor of her thighs and the shameless moaning let Viago know how fucking _good_ he is at what he’s doing. When her pleasure peaks, Viago has her lie on her side —not before finishing ripping her dress to shreds— and fucks her again. He is insatiable, and Clara _will not_ ask for mercy.

The next night she sneaks into his room at dusk, when she knows he would be emerging. She sits him on the cot —

“What’s it for?” she asks.

“Decor” he answers.

He actually manages to get her upper body out of the dress without ripping it, and she rewards his graciousness by sinking to her knees and taking his cock in her mouth. There’s something morbid about engaging in such activities right next to a coffin, but being married to a dead man is in itself pretty macabre, so Clara shrugs off the thought.

She is also fully concentrated on the taste of his cock, or, more precisely, the lack of taste. There is a hint of… life, an insinuation of saltiness, like licking a single drop of sweat. Such absence, however, doesn’t deter her from slipping the flushed head into her mouth and then slowly work her way to the base.

Viago lets out a breathless curse. He tangles his hand in her braid and pushes his hips forward. “Such a good girl, sucking my cock so well.”

His praise settles like dew on her, spurring her on, making her _choke_ on his cock, eager and shameless. There’s something about Viago’s voice, so soft and honeyed and uttering such filth that makes her dizzy with want.

“Are you going to swallow every last drop like the good girl you are?” Clara tries to nod as she keeps sucking and she hears a low _fuuuuuck_ right before Viago’s warm release trickles down her throat. He raises her off the ground and kisses her hard. 

“Fuck me”, he whispers. So Clara fucks him on the cot, eyeing the coffin from time to time, but finding it harder and harder to focus on anything other than Viago. Her climax is sudden and hot, unbearably so. She bites his shoulder through his clothes as her body spasms in blinding pleasure.

She ends up taking a short nap before dinner, lest she falls asleep in front of Tessie and Agnes, who is looking like the cat who got the cream these days.

  


“Take off your clothes”, she says. Viago offers her his best sheepish smile. _He really has perfected those_ , Clara thinks.

He starts to undress, and Clara feels a furious blush on her face. Is it because she has not seen him fully nude? Is it because ridding oneself of one’s clothing in front of another is a very intimate act of trust?

Viago sits shirtless on her bed and begins to take off his boots. Clara is wearing a simple nightgown. She fixes her gaze on his discarded boots, and only looks at Viago again when he stands in front of her. She closes the distance between them and grazes his chest with her fingers. He's solid yet slim. She wonders about his parentage; despite the paleness of death that has fallen upon him, his skin is a soft brown.

The nature of vampires is so… perplexing. His chest doesn’t move with the mechanics of breath, but she has heard him speak and gasp and moan. He has no body chemistry, and yet he is capable of taking her in his arms and fuck her senseless.

There are times in which his desire for her is almost palpable, as if the air around them were thicker. How does he do that with stagnant blood, with a still heart? Are vampires capable of love?

She touches his shoulders, his waist, his thighs. He is as cold as marble, but the feel of his skin is so very seductive. Viago himself is all allure, like a siren. It’s so strange to feel attracted to such a creature. To such a man.

She kisses him, her fingers twisting in the dark of his hair. He returns the kiss, gentle at first, then hungry, leaving her breathless. A habit of his she enjoys far too much.

“Lie down”, she murmurs, and Viago obeys, he always does. She takes off her gown and straddles him. He takes her breasts in his hands and caresses her nipples with his thumbs before sitting up and closing his mouth around one, then the other. Clara hums and rocks against him.

Viago kisses her collarbone, her shoulder, her neck. She feels the tips of his fangs on the delicate skin and shivers. He will need to feed in a few days. Will he ask her? Will she say yes? She kisses him once more, licking her way into the wetness of his mouth. Then, she presses her hand to his chest and pushes him into the bed.

She can feel his cock, hard against the curve of her ass. But she wants him to beg. She reaches between her thighs and starts touching herself. Viago whimpers, eyes focused on her hand. She allows her own eyes to close and her head to hang back, middle and ring finger moving clockwise, the pleasure rising and swelling.

“Clara”, he breathes. She opens her eyes and looks at him. He must feel the weight of her stare because he looks up. She smirks and pushes her fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t so much lick them as he lathers them with his spit. She resumes circling her clit, the glide of their wetness making the friction much more provoking.

Her own stimulation, plus the hypnotic pull of Viago’s gaze drive her into a blissful peak where she moans and convulses with abandon. When she comes down from the high, she notices his hands gripping her hips.

“Please, Clara.”

“Please, what?”

He grunts and grips her harder. “Please fuck me. Get yourself off on my cock.” She does just that. She takes his cock and pushes it deep inside her and slowly rolls her hips, fingernails digging into the flesh of his abdomen. She takes her time, aware of Viago’s growing need for release but reveling in being in complete control.

He writhes and pulsates under her, his body taut, his hold unyielding.

“Touch me”, she orders, and Viago licks his fingers and presses them to her flesh, following the same pattern and speed he’d observed moments prior. “Fuck”, she utters out of breath. She is so close she can feel the sharp edge of the pit she’s about to plunge into.

Clara leans forward and bites Viago’s chest and mere seconds later her back arches and her mind goes blank.

She is still moving, the rhythm of her hips faltering, giving way to faint twitches as she tries to make her climax last just a little bit longer.

The second Clara opens her eyes, Viago draws her to him and kisses her. He then flips them over and begins to thrust into her with desperation, his hands wrapping her legs around his waist, his head buried in her neck.

“I want to watch you come like that every night until I fucking die” he grits out. “I will have you, Clara. I will have all of you. You’re all I want to taste. Just you, only you.” He grunts, driving his hips hard into hers. Clara can only hold onto him as he comes, his words echoing in her mind.

He is no longer moving, and his body is heavy. But she holds onto him, not wanting to let go. Their bodies remain entangled for a few moments, then Viago plops down next to her. He runs his fingertips down her chest then brings them to his lips, tasting her sweat.

“You look even more lovely with your cheeks all red.” Clara chuckles and turns to lie on her side. She has to ask.

“What you just said… that you will have all of me. Does that mean you intend to drink my blood?”

Viago frowns. “I said that?”

Clara scoffs. “Yes, you did.”

He draws geometrical figures on the skin of her arm. “I want to. You must know I do. You know what I am.” His fingers still and he looks at her in the eye. “But if I do it, it will be because you request it. I will not ask. This has to come from you.”

“Is that a general requirement or a personal code?” She is so curious about how the whole ordeal.

Viago smiles. “It’s more of a personal code. But you are my wife. Do you know how badly I wanted you, since the moment we met? But desire is a two-way street. I needed you to want me too. And this is the same.”

Clara nods. “Will it hurt? How do you know when to stop? What happens afterward?”

He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. “It will hurt, at first. A lot. But after a few seconds, there’s no more pain. There’s no kind of feeling, actually. You would just feel numb.”

Clara shivers. It sounds ghastly.

“I feel satiated after a couple of minutes. Then, I lick the wound to make it heal faster and…” Viago looks away and clears his throat. “Vampire blood has healing properties. If the subject wants to, they can drink a few drops of my blood in order to recover faster.”

Clara is flabbergasted. “Healing properties?”

“Yes. It is not well known, since most vampires tend to kill their victims. And those who do know, are told that its healing properties are linked to a speedy recovery from vampire bites, nothing more.”

“But that’s not entirely true.”

Viago doesn’t say anything, and Clara laughs. “What, do you think I’m going to spread this information first thing tomorrow?” Viago keeps quiet.

“You do, don’t you?” Clara sits up. She was considering giving her blood to someone who doesn’t even trust her. Viago sits up as well.

“My immortality has certain caveats. I cannot die, but I can certainly be killed.”

“And you fear what, exactly? That I will be the one to do it? Directly or indirectly?” She lets out a humorless laugh. She rises and throws on a robe.

“Clara”, Viago says, but she doesn’t turn.

“Please leave. You don’t want to risk me stabbing you in the chest with the foot of a table.”

“I did not imply-"

“Yes, Viago, you did.” She turns, angry now. “You tell me you want to drink my blood, something that causes a great deal of physical pain, mind you, and in the same breath you admit you don’t trust me.” She stands in front of the window. “If I wanted to kill you I would have tried it already.”

She never considered that, not even on the first days of their marriage. And it stings that he, at this point, would even think that she means him any harm. Clara now sees that they don’t really know each other. They are two strangers who just happen to be married.

“Clara”, he pleads.

Clara knows she should at least hear whatever he has to say. But she does not have to look at him. She feels his presence right behind her. She wants to turn around and hold him. She wants to go back to bed and feel his weight next to her. But she doesn’t move. She has always been too proud.

“Have a good night, Viago.” Her eyes are glued to the dark sky outside her window.

When she finally turns, she is all alone.


	11. XI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They can cross a bridge. Or they can burn it.

“Agnes. Agnes. Wake up, please.”

Agnes opens her eyes and sees Tessie practically bent over her.

“What is it?”

“It’s Viago. He’s in the study. I think he’s passed out.”

Agnes shoots up and checks the clock. “Heaven on Earth. Come, Tessie, it’s almost dawn.”

They run to the study and there he is, sprawled on the settee. His legs hang off to the side almost comically. 

“Is he alive? I mean… Is he normally undead?”

“Trust me, Tessie, you’ll know when a vampire has met their true death. You’ll spend hours cleaning it up.” Agnes stands over him and frowns. “He’s drunk.”

She misses Tessie’s puzzled look. Agnes takes a deep breath and slaps Viago across the face as hard as she can. Nothing. Shit. She tries again. Still nothing. Third time’s the charm, and she slaps him again. Viago stirs and grumbles.

“Viago. Wake up, boy. Dawn is upon us, so unless you want to fry very slowly, I suggest you come out of it.”

Viago opens one eye. “Clara?”

Agnes snorts. No more fucking around. She punches him hard in the face. Viago lets out a pitiful moan and wakes up. 

“This one can’t hold his liquor”, she spits at Tessie. “Come on. We’ll help you get to your room. Up!”

He sits, then stands. Agnes slides her shoulder under his arm and Tessie does the same on his right. He starts walking, albeit very slowly. But at least he’s moving. The drapes over the windows of the study are thicker than normal, but daylight still goes through.

They move toward the stairs, then climb them frustratingly slowly. Agnes has never thought of Viago as a walking corpse, like many people weary of vampires; she sees him as a person, a man. Corpses do not possess the ability to do stupid things, like getting drunk and passing out in a place where they could gradually turn to ash.

They walk past Clara’s bedroom, and Viago mutters something that she doesn’t quite catch. When they reach his room, they drop him in his coffin.

“Has Clara left me?”, he mumbles. Tessie looks at Agnes. Agnes looks at Viago.

“Not yet.”

Viago chuckles. “So she will. Good. Saves me the trouble.”

Agnes sighs. “We can talk when you’re sober.”

“How, exactly, does a vampire get drunk?” Tessie asks as they make their way downstairs.

“He pumped some poor chump full of booze then drank his blood.” Agnes pauses and looks at the girl. “Were you in the study when he came in?”

“No. I was in the kitchen. I heard him come in, but his steps sounded funny. He also knocked over a vase, but it landed on the carpet. And he left the door to the study open. He never does that. So I risked a look, and saw him lying on the settee, so… undignified. Like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut off.”

Agnes chuckles.

“Will he be hungover?”

“God, no. These fellows suffer no human ailments.” They reach the kitchen and Tessie starts making coffee.

“What about heartache?”

Agnes smiles sadly. “Save for that one, I’m afraid. Especially Viago. He’s prone to melancholy and heartache. And his feelings for Clara are complicated. I honestly don't know what to make of them.”

“What do you think happened this time?”

“It’s impossible to know. I trust he will tell me; perhaps I can help him fix it.”

Agnes suspects Viago might know how to fix it, it’s just that Clara won’t let him. She’s too quick to see his faults, as if she didn’t have any of her own. That girl is too difficult, Agnes thinks.

When they finally consummated their marriage, Agnes thought they could begin a proper union. Passion is often a bridge, especially for the young. But it became obvious that they had let their passion take the reins of their relationship: all they did was fuck. And they soon learned that a marriage is more than that.

They need to learn each other, and not just with their fingertips and with their mouths. Viago needs to be completely honest with her. Agnes would bet her wage on Viago not telling Clara half the things she needs to know about him, about his past.

Two idiots who need to get their act together before Agnes smothers one with a pillow and stakes the other one in his cold, dead heart.

  


Viago wishes he were human so he could find comfort in a steaming cup of tea.

Clara seems to find solace in food; for the past week she’s been baking nonstop with Tessie and Agnes. They have made so many pastries they’ve had to give them away to their neighbors. He wonders how Clara introduces herself. She must say she’s his wife, but how does she say it? With a smile? With a solemn stare?

Viago gets along with his neighbors just fine. When he first moved into town, they brought him food. Actual food, which Agnes and Christopher had to take home. A few of them visited the house; more curious than sensible, Viago thought. And their curiosity turned to disappointment when they saw he lives just like any other person. His house differs in no way from theirs, save for the coffin in his rooms.

He has never fed inside these walls. There have been several other ‘Georges’: not always male, but always young and beautiful. His days of chicanery and needless bloodshed are behind him, and he doesn’t miss them. He does not miss the decadence of his life with Vladislav and Deacon.

When Charles Dumas offered him his daughter, he thought having a wife would bring a spark of life —quite literally— to his nights. Viago’s thinking had been naive, painfully so. He had thought his wife, this mystery woman, would offer him… contentment. And what would he offer in return? He had not taken that into account. And now he sees the consequences of such selfishness. He lives with a stranger.

When Clara has barricaded herself away from him, he has kept his distance. He doesn’t intend to break down doors and walls. But the obstacles are not just physical. There’s an emotional distance between them, one he’s been unable to overcome. Has he tried hard enough? Has Clara?

He hears the front door opening. Clara has made a friend, one Ms. Reid. A woman her age with her same appetite for sweets, according to Agnes. Viago can’t help but wonder if Clara talks about him. Probably not. She has nothing to say about him, anyway. She doesn’t know him at all. Does she want to know him?

The night after his embarrassing bender, he and Agnes have an interesting talk. She, of course, savors all of the shameful details. The way Tessie found him. How they brought him to his room. And what he had said to them. _Saves me the trouble_.

“What the hell does that mean, Viago?”

There is nothing about Agnes Viago doesn’t like. She’s kind and understanding, but not willing to put up with his shit. And she can be intimidating when she wants to be. Perhaps he’s meant to be surrounded by strong-willed women, women who counter his own acquiescent nature.

What does that mean, indeed? He knows what it means, deep down. But it’s hard to acknowledge it.

“It means that if she leaves, I won’t have to admit I failed because I’ll be able to blame her.”

If Clara leaves, she’ll bear the responsibility of their failure as a couple. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t left; she doesn’t want to let him off the hook so easily.

“How do you think she feels about me, Agnes?”

Agnes sighs. “I think she’s stubborn, awfully so. But if you’re worried she hates you, or worse, is indifferent toward you, she’s not. She likes you, she has all this time. But the way you two were brought together, well, that gave you a rough start.” Agnes pauses.

“I think you and Clara can be good together, if you try.” She squeezes his hand. “Your feelings, and Clara’s, they’re strong, but shallow. Love takes work. It doesn’t just happen. Fucking nonstop is not intimacy. You cannot love a person without knowing them.”

She walks to the door. “Is poor George alive?”, she asks before leaving.

Viago’s face falls. “No.”

  


Clara knocks, even though she has never knocked before.

“Come in.”

Viago is sitting on the settee. Perhaps he’s taken a liking to it. She remains standing. She fears that if she sits too close to him, she will cave to the ache she’s been feeling since that night in her bedroom, and she’ll throw herself at him.

“Agnes said you wanted to talk.”

“I do. But if you’re tired and want to go to bed, it’s fine.”

She hesitates. She wants to hear him, she misses the sound of his voice. But she is so afraid of what he has to say. They can’t put this off indefinitely, so she sits on one of the armchairs. Her hands are shaking, and her heart is beating painfully fast; any faster and she will faint.

“Why are you so nervous?” Viago asks softly.

Clara takes a deep breath. “Because I think you are going to leave me.” A pause.

“Or worse.”

She chances a look at his face. Viago looks… horrified.

“Do you really think I summoned you here to kill you?”

Clara wants to cry, but she can’t lose her composure. Not now. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Viago nods, his face ashen and somber. “I feel the same way, actually. We have nothing but uncertainties, you and I.”

Clara looks away, but nods as well. She bites her lip, which has started to quiver.

“Clara.”

She turns to him, dewey-eyed but determined.

“Viago. You summoned me. So do speak first. This is your house, after all.”

He grimaces. “It’s your house, too. Have you ever felt at home here?”

She has, yes. And it didn’t take that long for her to feel welcome. She had started to feel like a burden at her parents’ home, and here she has always felt… content. This could be the very last conversation she has with Viago, so she might as well be honest.

“Yes. Despite everything, yes, I have.”

“Could you be happy here?”

“I have been happy here.” Clara doesn’t see happiness as a permanent state; its essence, in fact, resides in its ephemeral nature.

“There have been moments where I have felt genuinely happy. With Agnes, with Tessie. Here, in this study. In my chambers. In the garden. With you.”

The night of the ball, for instance. When she saw him walk through the door, unharmed, she felt a swelling happiness bloom in her chest. The following night, when they embraced in front of the mirror, his softness surrounding her. The night they made love in his room: they remained entwined for a few moments, his face on her shoulder, her hands in his hair.

Clara has stopped shaking, and her heartbeat has settled. She does not mention these moments. Did he also feel happiness in those instants? She can only hope. Regardless of what happens to their marriage, she’ll have those memories to treasure until she grows old.

“I think we did everything wrong. I know I did.” Viago stands and paces around the room. “I thought consummating our marriage was the first step. That our relationship would blossom naturally after that. I was mistaken, evidently.”

He stands by the window, and Clara watches him from her seat.

“I believe getting to know each other first would have contributed to the betterment of our relations after our… rough start. And we tried, or at least you did. Remember that night you came to me and asked me about my abilities? Had our conversation not gone sour so fast, we could have made some progress.”

Viago paces again. “Agnes says we are stubborn, and she is right. You, Clara, are the most stubborn person I have ever met. And I have lived for centuries.”

He smiles, more to himself than to her. “You locked yourself in your room, like a princess in a tower. Sometimes I think you almost expected me to knock down that door and rescue you. And perhaps I should have. Not knock the door down. I have never been one for violence. Ironic, yes, I am aware.” Clara scoffs. “But I should have reached out to you. It’s like we fed off each other’s pointless refusal to give in. And each other’s subsequent misery.”

Clara scowls. Could he be right? She spent several nights waiting for him. A knock, a murmur. Yes, maybe even a hard thud followed by a felled door. Something. An indication of his interest, of his ardor.

Ha! A princess in a tower. What an apt description. God, what a fool she had been. Her cheeks turn a bright red. She feels the utmost embarrassment. She is so wrapped in those memories that she misses Viago sitting again on the far side of the settee.

“Clara”, he calls again.

She looks at him, still flustered. The look on his face takes her by surprise. _Fondness_. 

“Would you like to sit here?” His voice is low; he sounds timid, almost boyishly so. She can’t find it in herself to refuse. She sits on the settee, a respectable distance still between them. Respectable but not irreconcilable.

Viago doesn’t move closer, but he does take her hand in his. “I am not going to leave you, Clara. But I will not stop you if you want to leave me.” He looks to his desk. “Actually, I can leave. You can keep this house. And you’ll have enough money to live comfortably.”

Clara pictures his room, empty. No coffin, no perfectly arranged toiletries. No Viago. That is not what she wants. She wants _him_.

“No”, she says. “I don’t want that. I don’t want that, Viago. You are my husband, and I am your wife.”

She moves closer to him and takes his other hand. “You say we need to know each other. You’re right. I think we expected far too much from one another without bothering to do any of the work.” Viago nods in agreement.

“Do you want to be with me?” he whispers.

Clara’s answer is clear and direct. “Yes, I do. Do you want to be with me?”

Viago brings her fingers to his lips. That gesture will always make her heart melt in her chest.

“I do.”

“How about you fuck me on this settee before I lose my mind?” Clara mutters before she kisses him hard. Viago rips her dress open.

“My fucking pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timothy Dalton gave us the best line reading in TV history with CHICANERY on Penny Dreadful. He really did that. 
> 
> One more chapter to go!


	12. XII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn is witnessed. Metaphorically speaking.

“I hadn’t killed someone in quite a while.”

Viago feels weary. Clara runs her fingers through his hair. They are fully clothed, lying on her bed. Both of them seem to be too tired to slip out of their garments. They’ve spent three nights talking, sharing stories about their lives, whispering truths, both small and significant.

Viago has spoken more, logically. He told her the story of how he was turned into a vampire. A rather mundane anecdote, in his words. He was turned by a woman he never saw again. He does remember her name: Jane. He fancied her, and she gave herself to him. Her body was cold, but Viago didn’t have much experience with women, having spent his youth chasing the men who worked for his family. He had been in love with a sweet girl named Katherine, but her father didn’t approve of Viago, so she married someone else.

Jane found him with a broken heart and a deliciously human need for sympathy. After they made love, she fed on his blood. She nearly sucked him dry, and on the verge of death, he drank her blood. A few nights later, he was all alone, reborn as a vampire. All that Jane left him was a letter explaining what he was and how to shield himself from death. Should he follow her indications, he would live forever.

He spoke of James, a man he loved as much as he had loved Katherine, but who died at the hands of another vampire. Viago had not thought about either of them for the longest time. After James died, he and Vladislav wrecked havoc in the small town they had been living in. Vladislav had always jeered at Viago’s demure nature, but after centuries of knowing one another, he’d grown fond of it. But a grief-ridden Viago was a different Viago altogether. No one was left to attest to what had transpired. That was long before vampires made themselves known to the world.

For years, Viago wandered from place to place, never finding comfort anywhere. And, after one incident in which he left his victim alive, he decided not to kill anymore. The victim in question was a beautiful redhead, a woman named Louise. He took a liking to the way her hands tugged at his hair while he fed, and her legs curled around his waist in what it seemed an involuntary gesture.

He knew humans, when they still had enough blood in their veins, enjoyed being fed upon. That they found it arousing. That’s why he bit Louise from the front and not from the back, as he usually did. He wanted her to want him. He stopped feeding and, in a fit of lust, bit his wrist and fed her his blood. She drank it eagerly, and he fucked her again and again, until her hair was a tangled mess and her legs shook uncontrollably. He let her live. And the woman after her. And all the women and men after that one, too. He always glamoured them so they wouldn’t remember him afterward. Until George.

He had been too intoxicated to restrain himself. He had been angry and sorrowful and George was too soft, too eager to please. He never said no. He would have let Viago do whatever he wished with him. George gave him the same starry-eyed gaze Tessie did in the beginning. They were both so young, so… innocent. Maybe that’s why Viago never considered seducing Tessie: he already had a Tessie of his own. And because he could not do that to Clara. Her initial rejection hurt, a lot. But she was his wife. It was enough to be a blood-sucking monster.

“I don’t think you’re a monster”, Clara says. He feels the vibrations of her vocal cords against his cheek, and he finds it soothing. Even if her words were less kind, he’d still like her to keep speaking.

“You feel guilt. Yes, you killed George. You can’t undo it. You’ll have to live with it. But you’re not a monster. You are… you. Your nature was forced on you. In order to survive, you must do what you do. You’re doing what you can.”

Viago does not seek absolution, but Clara’s words do provide great comfort. She has listened without judgement, and he's done his best to reciprocate.

She told him about her childhood: uneventful. Her parents were not wealthy, but they lived comfortably. She would have liked to have a younger sister; that explains why she is so fond of Tessie. She spoke of Ian, of how she seduced him as a ploy to prevent her wedding. She had always liked him, and when she saw the opportunity, she took it. It was… disappointing. Clara had discovered the delights of self-pleasure as a teen, so she was rather unimpressed after her encounter with Ian. In the poor lad’s defense, she was his first, too. He became infatuated with Clara, and even asked her to elope. She carefully considered it; her parents outrage would have been supremely satisfying. However, she also feared Viago would retaliate. As much as she wanted to distance herself from them, she did not wish them harm. They tried to be good parents, and they mostly succeeded. Her mother even chuckled when she told them about Ian. Viago snorted. Everyone seemed to find that story comical. When Clara refused to elope, Ian called her a whore and told her they’d find her corpse in a ditch a few weeks after the wedding. Viago outright laughed. He’d never be so careless as to throw a body in a ditch, he thought, though he had the good sense not to say it aloud.

Clara also spoke of a girl called Effie. They had explored each other’s bodies, mostly in a haste, hiding from spying eyes. Effie was soft and her mouth always tasted like peppermint. Her fingers were dexterous and they always managed to make each other come in a matter of minutes. Those short, shallow encounters had given her more pleasure than her rendezvous with Ian.

Viago had wanted to ask if she and Tessie had engaged in similar activities, and when he gathered enough courage to do so, Clara spoke.

“Tessie reminds me of Effie. But our affections have always been sisterly.” A long pause. “And there was you. Kind of rude to fuck one of your employees in your own house, don’t you think?”

Viago had smiled, and Clara had smiled, too, and those bright smiles of hers would be the closest he could ever get to actual sunlight.

  


When Clara wakes, she is alone. And it’s almost mid-day. She wonders what nighttime will bring. She and Viago have tried to be as open and as truthful as possible. And she thinks their stories have reached the present: they’ve no more to say. Not about their pasts, anyway. The present is good enough for her. She has never been one to conjecture about the future. One day at a time. One night at a time, as well.

Who would have thought the idea of spending her nights with Viago would make her feel… content? He’s a great storyteller with centuries behind his back. He treats her with respect, he never speaks to her with condescendence. And having him close to her body gives her the most delicious shivers. Even with all of his clothes on, Clara seeks his touch, his embrace.

They rested together on her bed for three consecutive nights, not even bothering to undress. His presence alone affords her warmth. She does not mind the chill of his skin. She has gotten used to the stillness of his chest. He rests his head on her breast and she tangles her fingers in the soft threads of his hair and loses herself in the even softer cadence of his voice. And as much as she enjoys the sound of him speaking, she wants to hear again the sound of his breathless pleading.

  


They don’t speak. His mouth is on hers as soon as he crosses the threshold of her bedroom.

He takes great pleasure in properly undressing her this time. He does it slowly, reveling in her impatience. By the time he’s settled between her legs, she's shaking with anticipation.

He bites the supple skin of her thighs and, without warning, dips his tongue deep in her cunt. Clara lets out her first word of the night, a long _fuck_ that makes him grin. She is so slick already, and he spreads her wetness with his fingers and then sucks on her most sensitive flesh, and Clara moans and tugs violently at his hair. He does it again, and again, his mouth fully devoted to that small spot that makes her grind her cunt against his face.

He’s done this before, but not here, in her bedroom, on her bed. Not where she spends all of her nights, where she sought refuge after their bitter disputes, where she pleasures herself under cover of darkness. Viago sees this as a victory. Clara has let him in. She is his, at last.

One last flick of his tongue, one last hard suck and Clara falls apart before him, limbs trembling and throat vibrating with delicious moans. He treasures every sound she makes, every sigh, every whimper. He moves up her body, tongue drawing shapeless figures on her belly, mouth lingering on her breasts, pulling the hard peaks into his mouth. He reaches her neck and nibbles on the delicate flesh, and Clara shudders and holds him closer. She licks into his mouth, kisses him aggressively, tasting herself.

He enters her in one swift thrust. He finds himself resting his forehead against hers. The slickness, the heat of her are too much. He withdraws and slides back in, setting a slow rhythm that makes them both moan. Clara draws her knees higher, allowing him to go deeper.

“Fuck, Clara.” The motion of his own hips has slithered out of his control; all he wants is to feel her, to be driven mad by the friction of their bodies, of her cunt around his cock. Viago feels her hand between them, and he wants to shove it away so _he_ can touch her, but he also wants her to make herself come. He wants to watch her make herself come.

He sits back on his heels and perches her legs upon his shoulders. How he wished to take her like this on their wedding night. “Keep touching yourself”, he breathes, and she obeys, playing the good wife for the very first time, a wicked smile on her face. He kisses her ankle and drives into her harder. Clara’s eyes flutter closed. She grabs her breast and flicks her thumb over her nipple and moves her fingers faster and fuck, her back arches beautifully as she unravels.

“Can I…” he asks, as he grazes her belly with his fingers. Clara’s eyes are glassy and her hair is sprawled on the pillow like a dark-winged bird.

“Yes”, she whispers. Viago grunts and curses as he slips out of her and, with a few pumps of his hand, spills himself all over her stomach. He knows he will never get enough of this sight: his wife, thoroughly debauched. So many nights ahead of them, and they still aren’t enough, Viago thinks. He lies by her side, enjoying her breathing, labored still. She is so _alive_.

He nuzzles her neck. Could he…? That is a question for another night. Clara rests her head on his chest. He can feel her heartbeat against his ribcage.

“Let me take a quick nap and then we can explore different positions, yeah?”

Viago’s laugh is loud and booming. “I have a couple in mind”.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt”, she yawns. More than a couple, she’d find.

  


Viago sits behind her in the tub.

He had bought it for her, never expecting to join her in it, so they’re a bit cramped. But he doesn’t mind; he’s perfectly happy to have her rest on his chest, his hand between her legs.

He buries his nose in her hair as he touches her, and Clara writhes against him. Her little _ohs_ and _ahs_ linger in the humid air and make him lightheaded and so fucking hard.

He kisses her as she comes, a sloppy, sensual kiss that sets his nerves alight. Viago reaches between their bodies and grabs his cock, stroking it hard and fast. Clara turns her head and her gaze travels down and she fixes her eyes on his hand. She looks _enthralled_.

"Put your fingers in your cunt and let me taste you”, he rasps. Clara dips her hand in the water and then brings her fingers to his mouth. He sucks on them and growls as he comes.

“I want to watch you do that in the study.” There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she speaks.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Fully clothed, sitting at your desk. Or lying on the settee.”

“Why not both?”

She chuckles. “Yes, why not both?”

The water is still warm, so they can stay a little longer. Viago breaks the comfortable silence that has fallen upon them.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Clara sighs. “How many times are you going to ask me? Do you doubt I am of sound mind and capable of making such a decision?”

“Don’t get prissy with me, young lady.”

Clara scoffs. She takes his hand and puts it on her chest, on her beating heart. Viago presses his fingertips onto her skin.

“Tell me to stop and I will, alright?”

“Even if you aren’t-“

“Even if it’s been two seconds. I mean it, Clara.”

She turns to look at him and finds him with his brow furrowed. She kisses him softly on the lips. “I trust you. Do you trust me?”

He nods. “I just don’t want to-“

“I know. And you won’t hurt me. You are my husband, Viago. I will not have you licking other people’s necks, do you hear me? That’s just gross.”

Viago chuckles. Clara fixes her gaze on the shelves in front of her, on the white, soft towels. She takes a deep breath and relaxes her muscles. Her head lulls to the side, but she keeps her eyes open. Viago takes her hand in his and twines their fingers.

The pain is scathing. Her body’s natural response is to move away, so she tries to surge forward, but Viago has a tight hold on her, his arm curled around her waist. Clara closes her eyes and focuses on Viago’s body behind her. She cannot think, all she can do is feel the pain. Adrenaline shoots right through her, making her heart beat unbearably fast. Just when she thinks she’s about to black out, the pain starts to subside. It decreases until it becomes a low hum in her blood.

Her rapidly diminish blood, she remembers. But she can’t fight it, it’s too late. Viago squeezes her hand, urging her to squeeze him back. She does, however weakly. Clara feels weightless, and no pain whatsoever. There are worse ways to die, she supposes. Viago presses her to his chest, and she feels a spark of life between her thighs.

 _Ah, there it is_. She closes her legs and rubs them together, a sudden itch she must scratch. A request is on her tongue. _Fuck me, now_. Before she can utter it, Viago retreats. She feels his tongue on her neck, where the puncture wounds should be.

Clara is feeble, nearly incapacitated, yet the urge to have Viago inside her is almost too much. She lets out a quiet moan. She can’t even move her body, for fuck’s sake.

She hears her name. And, in front of her, there’s a wrist with two tiny holes and dark-red blood pouring out of them. Clara brings it to her mouth and… the taste is not as foul as she had expected. It tastes like her own blood, metal-like and bitter. Maybe a tad more bitter. She doesn’t drink much; the consistency is thicker, and even if it doesn’t taste as bad as she thought, it’s still blood.

She blinks. When she opens her eyes again, she's on her bed. Her mind doesn’t even attempt to comprehend the shift in location. And her body pays no heed to the shift in temperature. She doesn’t even get goosebumps, even though she’s still wet and the air is slightly chilly. She’s on her back, and Viago is asking her something. She doesn’t answer. She kisses him hard, her tongue prying his mouth open. “Just fuck me.”

He flips her over and Clara finds herself on her hands and knees. Viago pushes his way inside and starts pounding into her in a relentless pace.

“Clara, Clara, Clara”, she hears. Clara fists the sheets and moves her hips back against his. Her climax hits her and she screams and moans in pleasure, and also in surprise. Viago fucks her for a few more seconds before he, too, shouts and shudders against her. No wonder he’d said drinking a person’s blood was intensely arousing. Understatement of the century.

She tries to catch her breath. Viago drapes a comforter over their bodies.

“How are you feeling?”

"Amazing. Fucking amazing, really."

He smiles. “Euphoria will do that to you. A few drops of vampire blood will make you recover nice and fast. A little more will give you a more than decent high. A lot of it can even cure a fatal injury.”

That’s why he was so weary of sharing that information with her. If people learn that, what’s to stop them from trying to kill a vampire to steal their blood?

“Thank you”, she murmurs.

“For what?”

“For trusting me.”

He draws her to him. Clara _does not_ want to cuddle. She straddles him and takes the sash of her robe and ties his hands to the headboard. She’s moving faster than she would under normal circumstances, her body unusually nimble.

Viago gives her a devilish smile — _I’ve never seen that one before_ , she thinks. Clara puts his stamina to the test. He comes out victorious, but barely.

  


He only gives her a few drops the following time. Clara doesn’t complain; they can save that “dosage” for their anniversary, she jokes.

He feeds once a week, roughly. If he were still human, he would compare her to an exquisite dessert. It’s almost obscene how good she tastes; he has rarely been unable to control himself while feeding, at least since he made the decision not to kill his victims. With Clara, he has to exert the utmost control.

They even have a safe word for when she starts to feel more debilitated than usual. And she keeps a silver-pointed spear in her grip when he feeds, just in case. It has taken them careful practice, but they have mastered their ritual. And the the fact that she trusts him with her life makes him even more careful.

He holds her in his arms afterward, an interlude of their desire. Her warmth is a harbor; immortality can weigh on the shoulders now and then. Then that warmth turns into heat and they devour each other, only to rest and find comfort in a calm embrace. It’s a stable cycle that has brought him contentment and peace of mind, and he hopes it has brought her the same.

  


Vladislav, Deacon and Nick stop by for a visit. They tell Clara their stories: how they were turned, how long they have lived, what they plan for the future. Even Agnes and Tessie join them; Viago had made them swear they wouldn’t touch them. And they kept their word.

Tessie is being courted by a sweet young man, Stuart. She calls him Stu, and the night of their visit, Stu is with Tessie in the garden. The vampires _love_ him, Viago included. They ask him all sorts of questions, and joke about his rosy cheeks.

They invite him to their house —Vladislav has invited Deacon and Nick to live with him, claiming he was feeling lonely. Clara doesn’t want to imagine what those three do in a big, creepy house. She shoots Stu a look that’s meant to be a warning, but he doesn’t register her concern. Clara only hopes they don't suck him dry; Tessie's absolutely smitten and, from the way he looks at her, so is he.

  


Clara likes dancing. They practiced the basics, and while Viago is lithe and graceful in other physical activities, he’s a little clumsy and lacks rhythm when he dances. Nevertheless, he enjoys it. They laugh and he even gives Clara a good fright when he takes her in his arms and floats them across the room.

“Perhaps gravity is your biggest hurdle when it comes to dancing”, she jokes.

Viago nods, absentminded, and starts to unburden her of her clothes.

“Let’s stay grounded, then” he mutters against her mouth as he gently sets her on the floor.

She ends up with a nasty carpet burn. A smudge of his blood makes it disappear. But she doesn’t mind the faint bruises his fingers leave on her hips.

  


They’ve made a habit of dancing in the study —or trying to dance, anyway. Viago fares much better with slow music.

A year has passed them, and Clara remembers the night they met. Everything of importance has happened in the study: their wedding, their quarrels, the first time they made love. Their promise to give themselves the chance to actually function as a married couple. Their first dance.

They sway to the music, surrounded by warm lights and a settee that has witnessed all of their rights and wrongs.

Viago kisses her softly, softer words leaving his mouth. They don’t say them often. But they mean them every time.


End file.
